


A Measure of Distance

by 3jarsofbees



Series: The Dreadful "After" [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Banter-Feelings, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Hawke-related guilt, Implied Fenris/Hawke, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Orlesian cuisine, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Post-Game(s), Post-Trespasser, Trespasser DLC, Varric Tethras is a Good Friend, missing a limb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9505646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jarsofbees/pseuds/3jarsofbees
Summary: "Lucky for me that you lived through all that, or it would've been my duty to vengefully murder Solas. And given his newfound talents, that might have been..." Dorian paused thoughtfully. "Though, Ihavealways thought I would make a marvellous statue.""You'd be the pride of any garden, I'm certain.""Garden? Please. I'm dramatically staged in a fountain or I'm nowhere at all."A lot of things are irreversibly changed after the events ofTrespasser. Dorian and Lavellan may be attempting to pretend that their relationship isn’t one of them. (a.k.a.: Attempting a firmer resolution to those loose relationship threads thatTrespassergave us.)





	1. How far away are you?

There was one brief little moment of respite, after they'd stormed gasping back through a series of eluvians, in a dusty storage room off the Winter Palace. Just the two of them sitting on the floor in the dark.

"I can hardly believe it's gone," Lavellan was saying, gazing down at the bandaged stump that was his left arm. "No more pulsing. No more pain. It's... actually... not going to kill me." He fixed Dorian with a stunned smile. "Can you believe that?" 

"And here I was actually deigning to get upset," Dorian said. "I should have known better. No matter what happens, you always manage to miraculously avert death at the last moment. It's almost predictable at this point."

"I can't really argue with that... I'm so sorry I upset you."

"Given the circumstances, I suppose I'll allow it. But we'll have to agree never to speak of that unseemly display of emotions again."

Lavellan chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of it." He scooted in closer, fixing his eyes on Dorian's, placing his one remaining hand on Dorian's knee. "I love you, Dorian. I don't want that to be something I just trot out when our lives are in terrible danger. I love you right now, too, just as much." 

There was a brief, almost undetectable flap of emotion through Dorian's face, although his voice betrayed nothing at all: "And I'm pleased you're still here. Honestly, what have I said about running ahead like that? If anything had happened to you in there I would never have forgiven you." 

"Tch. I'd say 'blame the Viddasala,' but I'm pretty sure she already got what was coming to her." 

Dorian pressed a kiss against Lavellan's forehead, holding it there for a long moment, then said, "Fair point. Lucky for me that you lived through all that, or it would've been my duty to vengefully murder Solas. And given his newfound talents, that might have been..." Dorian paused thoughtfully. "Though, I _have_ always thought I would make a marvellous statue." 

"You'd be the pride of any garden, I'm certain." 

"Garden? Please. I'm dramatically staged in a fountain or I'm nowhere at all." 

"Oh, all right. I'll make sure of that, just for you." 

Dorian smiled at Lavellan, stroking his left bicep, then looking down to his elbow a little more solemnly. "Are you in pain?" 

"After the anchor...? It's nothing." 

"Are you..." Dorian hesitated. 

Lavellan seemed to understand. He said, "Honestly, I don't think it's even sunk in yet that I've lost it. Right now I'm just happy to be alive. I'll worry about how I'm going to handle all this later." 

"I'm sure you'll handle it like you handle everything, Amatus. Brilliantly. Miraculously. And probably involving some manner of dark cave." 

"Of course. You can't solve anything without a dark cave."

"Well, clearly _you_ can't." 

They bumped their foreheads against each other, in a clumsy gesture of affection. "Will you..." Lavellan hesitated, weighing guilt against self-interest for a moment, before deciding: _After the day I've had? Fuck it._ "Will you stay a little bit longer? Please. Just an extra day or two, before you go..." 

"Of course," Dorian said. "With all that's just happened, I'm sure I can find some excuse. A few days is nothing, in the grand scheme. Plus, there's that wyvern-down bed you've been promising me..."

"We'll get it," Lavellan said. "Or, we'd bloody well better. I gave the Inquisition an arm. The least they can do is fix us up with a wyvern-down bed."

"You have a point there... although, I do believe the expression is, 'it costs an arm _and_ a leg.'"

Lavellan glanced down at his arm, then back up at Dorian. "Well, it's your turn, then."

"Ha! Ridiculous. You can't just chop up perfection."

Lavellan laughed with disbelief. But before he could retort, they were interrupted -- Lavellan was needed to finally address the Council, which Josephine had been single-handedly holding off for hours. At this, he sighed with pre-emptive exasperation. One final time...

Perhaps unnecessarily, Dorian helped Lavellan get to his feet. "You let them have it, Amatus. March in there and make them feel as pointless and foolish as they are."

"I will do my best," Lavellan said. "And you...?"

"Don't worry about me. I'll just be off ensuring you get your well-deserved reward."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"Just trust me," Dorian said with a grin.

* * *

There were so many whirling hours of excruciating business discussions that followed this promise, Lavellan didn't have much chance to wonder what Dorian meant by 'reward' until, at last, very late in the evening, they were able to retire to bed.

Up in the bedchamber of an outrageously spacious guest suite, Dorian swept apart his arms in front of the bed, as if unveiling it: a silk and gold explosion of egotistical architecture. "Just guess what's in here."

"Is it... wyvern down?"

"So they claim!" Dorian said. "The palace steward definitely wants to murder me, but other than that it was surprisingly little trouble... I was waiting for you before I dared to touch it. Shall we?"

"Is this going to change our lives irreversibly? Because I'm not sure I can handle any more of that today."

"Undoubtedly, yes. But in a good way, for once. Are you ready?"

They counted each other down, then delightedly flopped back and sank into the mattress. It was both decadently soft and reassuringly firm, with some otherworldly texture -- there almost seemed to be a quiet warmth radiating out from it.

"This is just wrong," Lavellan said. "This is _too_ comfortable. How am I supposed to go back to sleeping in a bedroll on the ground?"

"Why would you ever do that?"

"Well, I've just disbanded my organization, for one thing..."

"You're still the 'Herald of Andraste,'" Dorian said, which made Lavellan roll his eyes and groan. "Power and influence like yours don't just melt away, my dear."

"Could they, please? That would be nice..."

"So you can go back to sleeping in the woods like a barbarian? My word, I'll never understand you."

"Shut up," Lavellan said. His eyes had drifted down to the stump of his left arm, wound up in a clean new bandage. "At any rate, I'm not exactly the capable person I used to be, here, am I?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Dorian asked, turning his head Lavellan's way -- then registering the direction of his gaze. "Ah... Amatus, I've seen you fly over enough insurmountable obstacles that I sincerely doubt you'll let this one stand in your way. Trust me. Trust yourself, at that."

"Oh, all right," Lavellan said. "Then I'm sure I'll be back to holding two daggers in no time."

"Don't be a pill," Dorian said gently. "Come here."

They cuddled up under the blankets, Lavellan tucking his head onto Dorian's chest. For a time, they were just quiet, and Lavellan felt sleepiness starting to drift in. In all honesty, he thought -- for all the general irritation of being in Orlais -- this was indeed a damned comfortable bed.

Dorian took a breath in. "Do you think..." He faltered. "Should I..." 

"What?" 

Dorian fiddled with his mustache for a moment, seeking the words. "This business with the Magisterium... It's a real chance to do something for Tevinter. That's... there's quite a lot at stake here for me. But... I don't know, Amatus. With all this, with your... injury, I'm not sure I--" 

"Dorian. No. Don't ask me this." 

"Why not?" 

Lavellan could already feel himself welling up a bit. He said, "Because I know how important this is for you. I know I can't rightly ask you to stay here on my behalf. But if you ask for my opinion, you know what I'll say, so please, don't make me say it."

Dorian pulled him right in for a hug. For a minute they just lay there, silent and teary-eyed, until finally Dorian let out a weak chuckle and said, "My, aren't we a pathetic scene right now?"

"It's your fault," Lavellan said. "You made me like you."

"Can't be helped -- everyone winds up liking me. I'm irresistibly charming like that."

"Promise me I won't lose you," Lavellan said. "Promise that we won't drift apart just because we're separated by the Waking bloody Sea..."

"Don't forget Nevarra. Stuck in the middle there like a grim Cassandra trying to keep us chaste."

"I mean it. I need you to promise you won't run off with some handsome Tevinter man with two functioning arms."

"That is very unlikely, my dear. I'm afraid you've set the bar awfully high. He'd have to have performed a minimum of three impossible miracles to even qualify. Do you know, most people can't seem to muster a single one? It's rather pathetic."

"Well, then. I'm lucky you have such questionable requirements." Lavellan gazed up at Dorian for a few moments. "You know, I am going to be visiting you. You can't stop me from doing that."

"I wouldn't dream of stopping you, Amatus. Just as soon as I figure out a safe way to get you in to see me. All right? I won't have you taking any reckless chances."

"Excuse me? 'No reckless chances'? Hello, I'm ex-Inquisitor Lavellan, have we met?"

"I seem to vaguely recall you from somewhere," Dorian said. "But you know what, ex-Inquisitor? My country, my rules."

"Hmph," Lavellan said. "...Say 'ex-Inquisitor' again."

Dorian laughed. "You've been waiting a long time for this, haven't you, ex-Inquisitor?"

"That's putting it mildly... Freedom, what a concept. Maybe one of these days I'll be able to take a simple piss without worrying that Leliana is watching me do it."

"I wouldn't count on that," Dorian said. "She'll be Divine soon enough. That puts her a step away from the Maker. And the Maker watches _everyone_ piss. That is a Chantry fact."

"Is that in the Chant of Light, then?"

"Oh, definitely. There's an entire verse. The Canticle of Bodily Functions, I believe it's called..."

Lavellan snorted. "You are horrendous." He cuddled in a bit closer, pulling his one remaining arm around Dorian, as best he could. "I hate that you're leaving."

"Amatus, I'm--"

"I know," he said. "I understand. I mean it, Dorian -- I understand, and I'm proud of you, honestly. I'm incredibly proud of you and I fucking hate it."

Dorian cracked a smile. "I know the feeling... But let's not dwell on that now. We have a few days. Forget the future, for once in our lives. We can worry about all that once we've made a good effort at wearing out this intolerably fancy bed."

"You always have the best ideas," Lavellan said.

"I know," Dorian said, as he lifted Lavellan's chin, bringing their mouths close. "I'm brilliant that way."

There was an unbearable sea of emotion involved in kissing Dorian now. The relief of being able to do this, in relative safety and preposterous comfort, was by itself overwhelming. But stuck in there was a sharp sense of despair -- that this was finite. That this person could just saunter into Lavellan's life, casually bat aside his defenses, sink charming hooks into his heart and then _leave_ , for reasons that were more important than their own selfish interests. 

This sense of loss was even tangible: as much as Lavellan had become familiar with the feeling of Dorian in his arms, one hand cupping Dorian's jaw or winding its fingers into his hair, the other resting on Dorian's waist, or perhaps blithely grabbing his ass, if things were going that way... now, of course, that feeling was permanently altered: one arm maimed and throbbing and useless, the other nervously, uncertainly seeking the right spot all by itself, settling on a half-hold that was wholly inadequate.

Dorian paused, pulling back. "Maker, are you _crying?_ What's the matter?"

"I -- can't -- hold you," Lavellan gasped.

This didn't seem to clear much up; Dorian's eyebrows just lifted upwards. "What?"

"How am I supposed to hold you," Lavellan said, "with _one stupid arm?_ "

"Oh," Dorian said. He searched for some calming words -- as usual, it seemed Lavellan had been slowly amassing his feelings about the day's many events so that he could release them all together in one efficient, irrational explosion. "Come now, you're just fine. What's wrong with this?" He patted Lavellan's right arm, which was clinging tightly to his waist. "This is holding me, isn't it?"

"It's just -- it's not the same, it doesn't feel right..."

"I'm not about to float off to the ceiling," Dorian said. "You don't need an iron grip."

Despite feeling on the brink of crumbling, Lavellan nearly laughed. "That's not... Shut up."

"Considering just how often you say that to me, I'd think you'd've realized by now that it's a futile request."

"I'm sorry. I'm just a disaster. Everything's a disaster."

"You are not a disaster," Dorian said. "You're a miracle. I keep telling you. Hang the Inquisition and its problems. Hang Solas and his nefarious plans. In this very moment, you and I are alive and together and _experiencing a wyvern-down bed_ simply because you were here to make things go the right way."

"Do you really think that today went 'right'?"

"Considering the alternatives, I'd say it was pretty much as right as it could've been." Dorian paused for a long moment. Lavellan could read some kind of internal struggle playing itself out on Dorian's face. Then, finally, he added: "And, well, you have to be right in general, don't you -- because there's not much for you on the left side, is there..."

It took Lavellan a moment. "Oh -- _honestly!_ " he said, giving Dorian a retributive smack to the chest.

Dorian was fully shaking with impudent laughter. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry..."

"No you aren't."

"Yes, I am! I swear. I solemnly promise." Dorian pulled Lavellan into his arms again -- Lavellan gave him another half-hearted swat, but otherwise didn't resist. "I was simply making light of your unfortunate circumstances in an attempt to cheer you up. Did it not work?"

"No," Lavellan said. "Well... maybe, a bit. I don't know. Shut up."

"Like I said," Dorian said, nuzzling at Lavellan's cheek, "a futile request."

"You're intolerable," Lavellan muttered, and he found Dorian's mouth with his again.

Dorian paused to accept the kiss, then said, "Don't forget 'handsome.' That's why you keep me around, isn't it?"

"Sure. That's one reason. You're also willing to follow me toward certain death through mysterious eluvians -- that's not nothing."

"Handsome and foolish, then."

Lavellan laughed. "Yes. That's exactly how I'd describe you. Handsome, foolish and intolerable."

"What was that? I stopped listening after the first one."

"Idiot," Lavellan said, and he pulled Dorian back in for another kiss. In this very moment, he thought, this was still possible. He had Dorian right now. That would have to be enough.

Dorian pressed the full weight of his body against Lavellan's, wrapping a hand around the back of his thigh, pulling Lavellan's leg up over his own. Then he fixed Lavellan with a serious look and said, "Let's please dispense with the argument today. I would like to take care of you this time."

"No," Lavellan said automatically, though there was no conviction behind it. He felt shattered and exhausted. He didn't think he could have taken charge of sex if he tried. For once in his needlessly combative life, the idea of Dorian doing everything while he lay around like a useless log actually sounded pretty much ideal.

Dorian huffed. "You are _injured._ You have been through enough today. Please let me do this for you."

"Special injury rules?" Lavellan said. "No winner tonight?"

"All right. No winner, I promise... Or, actually, let's put it this way: tonight, we're both winners already." 

"Because we're both alive, improbably? I suppose I can accept that."

"Good." Dorian brought his face in close again, nudging Lavellan's nose with his own. "Well, darling? May I officially take the lead in fucking you?"

"Oh, all right," Lavellan said, finding a sleepy grin. "Just this once."

* * *

"Good morning!" came Dorian's voice, invading Lavellan's sleep like a sharp poke in the brain. "Amatus, can you hear this?"

Lavellan rolled over, grinding his palm into one eye and attempting to forcibly push the sleep from it, trying and failing to disentangle himself from the sheets. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows, throwing panes of brightness on every absurd Orlesian accoutrement in the room. His absurd Tevinter accoutrement, however, was distinctly absent from the bed.

"I know you must be incredibly comfortable," Dorian's voice said, "but it's time to wake up."

Lavellan attempted to prop himself up with his left arm, then yelped in pain at the accidental pressure on his raw stump of an elbow. _Right. Don't do that._ Instead, he rolled himself onto his stomach, then gazed at his pillow. He could have sworn the sound had come from there. Had Dorian taken to enchanting the bedding these days? Or was this all a dream -- some odd trick of the Fade? Was this a demon? Which demon would take the form of a pillow? 

Oh. Sloth. Definitely...

Dorian's voice said, "I'm going to take an educated guess and say that right now you must be groaning and rolling listlessly about." It was definitely coming from the pillow -- Lavellan snatched it up, then sighed with exasperation. There was his sending crystal, shoved right underneath the pillow by some calculating sleep-ruiner. "Well, stop that. You'll miss breakfast."

Lavellan threw the pillow aside, then grabbed the crystal in his fist and half-buried his face into the sheets next to it, scrunching his eyes closed again. He muttered the phrase to activate the crystal from his end, then said, " _Seriously_ , Dorian?"

Dorian's laughter came spilling out of the crystal now, rich with satisfaction. "So it does work! I had to make sure before I left, didn't I?"

"We tested it yesterday."

"But we were in the same room then. That's hardly scientific."

"Ugh," Lavellan said. "Where are you, anyway?"

"Ah! Now, that's an excellent question. Where _am_ I?"

"You want me to guess?"

"Only if you'd like to win."

Lavellan let out a dismissive snort. "I always win."

"That is demonstrably untrue."

"Whatever you say," Lavellan said, snuggling deeper into the sheets. In the warmth of this bed, he suddenly found his brain easily spilling out a memory from way back in the Hinterlands, back in the very early days of his relationship with Dorian, when they had little clue of where the Inquisition -- or either one of them -- was headed. When supplies had been sparser and accommodations less forgiving: not so much the sturdy cots and organized camps of the recent Inquisition, but more threadbare tents pitched in wooded clearings with bedrolls on the hard ground. Dorian had been complaining about these conditions, and they had both been aching for more privacy besides; it was that eager time in their relationship when they were so delighted with the novelty of freely touching each other that they could hardly bear to stop doing it, much to Cassandra's chagrin.

_"Sneaking out of your own camp in the middle of the night," Dorian said, as they hurried through the long, dark shadows of the trees like a pair of runaway children. "You are a remarkably odd Inquisitor."_

_"Please don't call me that," Lavellan said. The title was fresh and new and still deeply uncomfortable to him. Like a promise he'd never agreed to, and one he sincerely doubted he'd be able to keep. He tugged on Dorian's hand, leading him onward. "And I'm doing this for you. Do you really want all our scouts to listen in on us?"_

_"Dear Maker, no. I'm sure they'd make detailed notes on our performance and send them straight to Leliana. Who needs that sort of pressure?"_

_"Exactly."_

_"I am rather concerned about where you might be leading us, however," Dorian said. "As much as I would give just about anything to be with you right now, I'm not sure I can be a person who has sex in a cave."_

_Lavellan laughed. "So, you don't like caves?"_

_"Please tell me we aren't actually going to have sex in a cave."_

_"You're awfully lucky you aren't Dalish. You never would've gotten through my teen years with that attitude."_

_"What, really? You're not serious..."_

_"I am always serious." Lavellan had stopped on the path, now, still holding Dorian's hand, scanning the hills about them, thinking back through everything they had explored in this area. Then he turned to Dorian with a smile. "No matter. I have another idea..."_

_They diverted their course slightly upwards, until they came upon a small, round cabin on the hillside. Lavellan had poked around this cabin earlier that week: the door was locked, but through the windows he had deduced that while it was probably still in use during hunting season, it had clearly not been visited in some time._

_"So," Lavellan said. "How do you feel about breaking and entering?"_

_"Well, I like it more than nature, I can tell you that much."_

_"Good to know," Lavellan said, and before Dorian could ask any further questions he got down on one knee and casually picked the lock._

_Dorian laughed. "Did you never learn about 'trespassing' among the Dalish? Well, I suppose you wouldn't have, would you -- it's not as though you have any doors out there..."_

_"You wanted walls, I found you some walls," Lavellan said. He stood and pushed the cabin door carefully open, taking an appraising look around, then sweeping an arm to welcome Dorian inside._

_"Fair enough. How very ungrateful of me." Dorian padded carefully in after him. The cabin contained just one round, simple room. Dust had collected in every nook, and there was grass sprouting from between the floorboards, making it clear that no one had been here in a while, though on the whole it was a secure little shelter and functionally furnished: a rustic wood table and chairs, a little stove, and -- fortuitously -- a bed._

_As Lavellan closed and latched the door behind them, Dorian asked, "Who do you think this place belongs to?"_

_"A hunter, I expect. I'm sure he won't mind if we--"_

_"--defile his cabin? I think he might, actually."_

_"Not if he never finds out," Lavellan said. He went to Dorian, sliding his arms under the folds of Dorian's robes, winding them tightly about his waist, looking up with an inviting grin._

_"Good plan," Dorian said, gently taking a few of Lavellan's unruly curls and brushing them back from his forehead. "I suppose if he walks in, we can tell him we're here on important Inquisition business."_

_"Oh, right. The kind of important business that absolutely needs to be conducted naked."_

_"The best kind, clearly," Dorian said. "Some clandestine magic ritual, perhaps."_

_Lavellan snorted. "A magic ritual involving sex? Sure, that's believable."_

_"Not entirely unprecedented, actually! If you read the--"_

_Lavellan cut him off by jamming his mouth onto Dorian's, straining to hold himself up high enough on his toes. "No lectures on magical history before you fuck me."_

_"Oh, all right," Dorian said lazily, as if he could take or leave it -- as if Lavellan couldn't feel the full extent of Dorian's interest pressing against his hip. It had been a long few days stuck in close quarters with their companions, after all. "If you insist."_

_Lavellan had slept with human men before Dorian, back in the Free Marches: passing hunters and travellers, men driven half-mad with the loneliness and isolation of the long road through the backwoods, and thus happy enough to fuck some wild elf -- for sheer relief, or perhaps to satisfy their curiosity, or just to have an interesting story to tell when they were back in the taverns of civilization. At the time, Lavellan hadn't particularly minded playing the object of passing fascination for those men. It was his lot, he had figured. There was no one else with his inclinations among his clan, after all. Impersonal human encounters would just have to do._

_Dorian was different, of course. Dorian looked him in the eyes -- and Dorian laughed. During sex they both found themselves frequently in the grips of laughter, savouring the utter ridiculousness of stripping naked in the middle of a war and cheerfully, clumsily wrestling with each other in the most inhospitable corners they could find. And they would compete, like it was a game: they'd fight to be the one on top, or the other way around -- whatever their partner was attempting that night, they would playfully argue for the position. And they would always, always fight to make the other finish first, the last one standing whispering a smug "I win" wrapped inside a hot breath on the other's ear._

_In and out of bed, they could tease and prod each other all day. But after sex, there was a brief respite from this -- a sort of heady gratitude, where all they seemed to be capable of doing was lolling in each other's arms and openly admitting all the complimentary things they would never dare to say otherwise._

_"Sometimes I can't believe how talented you are," Lavellan was saying, in a euphoric boneless sprawl across the anonymous hunter's tiny bed, his and Dorian's limbs tangled up out of necessity. "That rift this morning -- the way you caged those demons in lightning! It's like you're crafting miracles from thin air."_

_"Magic quite literally is that, yes," Dorian said. "And I am rather good at it."_

_"You're incredible."_

_"I know, but thank you. For what it's worth, I sometimes can't believe you aren't using magic yourself. I have never in my life seen someone move as quietly as you do. I mean -- if you told me you were a professional assassin, I wouldn't be surprised!"_

_"Really? Is it odd that I find that an incredibly sweet thing to say?"_

_Dorian laughed aloud. "I wouldn't say so, though I may be the wrong person to ask! But I mean it, honestly. The way you flank people undetected... you could make a fortune as an assassin, I'm sure of it. Though, I suppose it may be easier to do that out here, in the forest, than indoors..."_

_Lavellan smirked at him. "What are you saying? You think I can't do it indoors?"_

_"In the confusion of some battle? Absolutely, I've seen you. But what about in a quiet, empty room? It'd be a sight more difficult, I expect."_

_"Such little faith you have in me."_

_"What, then?" Dorian asked, a hint of their usual sparring tone creeping back into his voice. "Do you intend to prove me wrong?"_

_Lavellan paused, considering this -- then he sprang up from the bed, tugging on Dorian's hand until he followed along to the centre of the cabin. "Let's do an exercise. You turn around, count to five, and then try to find me."_

_"You're joking."_

_"Dead serious," Lavellan said. "If I manage to sneak up on you, then I win."_

_Dorian laughed with delight. "Sneak up on me in the middle of a bare little cabin? Madness! All right, you're absolutely on." He spun around on his heel._

_"Close your eyes. And count slowly."_

_"Adding conditions, are you? Not so confident now, hm?" Dorian said. But then he did as he was told anyway, shutting his eyes, counting slowly and clearly to five -- then opening his eyes and looking about._

_Nothing. No sign of Lavellan. And nothing seemed to be disturbed in the cabin, either. "Hmmm... Interesting..."_

_Dorian spun about in place, scanning the circumference of the cabin, keeping his distance from any furniture, for fear that Lavellan might spring out from behind something and win. But there was no sign of any motion. In fact, it rather looked like Lavellan had left the cabin entirely. Had he jumped out a window, perhaps? Was that his trick? Or had he rolled himself under the bed? Perhaps he was just going to let Dorian stand around like a fool until--_

_And then the full weight of a short elf hit him from behind, two arms wrapping about Dorian's shoulders and two legs clamping around his torso, causing him to squawk with surprise. "Got you," Lavellan said in his ear._

_Dorian sputtered a curse in Tevene, staggering forward, as Lavellan snickered into the side of his neck. "Where in the blighted hell did you come from?"_

_"Perhaps it's magic?" Lavellan said, sliding off Dorian's back and landing on his feet._

_"You can't use that line with a mage!" Dorian said. "I'm confounded, I hate to admit..."_

_"Come on, don't give up that easily. Would you like to try that again?"_

_Once more, Dorian wheeled about, shutting his eyes, counting loudly and clearly to five. Then he looked all around himself. This made no sense. Lavellan must be hiding behind something -- and he must have quickly, carefully jumped from said hiding spot straight to the centre of the room in a split second, while Dorian's head was turned just the right way--_

_"You're thinking so horizontally," came Lavellan's voice, causing Dorian to swear with surprise again. He spun in that direction -- and there was Lavellan's face, upside-down and grinning, hanging down from the ceiling, where Lavellan's knees were clamp-folded over one of the rafters._

_Dorian stared up at him, agape, for a moment, then began to laugh. "Up there! Both times? How in the world did you get up there so fast?"_

_"Magic," Lavellan said, and he strained to sit up, just managing to grab the ceiling beam with his hands, then untucking his legs and dropping down to his feet -- Dorian half-caught him as he landed, even though this was unnecessary. "Also, uh -- I've climbed a lot of trees. It's more helpful than you'd think..."_

_"There, now, you see?" Dorian said, pulling Lavellan back in, so that they were nearly nose to nose. "Clearly you're very talented. You'd be a brilliant assassin, if you wanted to be."_

_"I know that," Lavellan said. "Also?"_

_"Yes?"_

_Lavellan leaned in close, his lips brushing up against Dorian's. As their eyes slipped shut, he whispered: "I win."_

"You can't just fall asleep again." Dorian's voice cut straight through Lavellan's daydreaming, resonating out from the sending crystal and reopening Lavellan's eyes to the gaudy furnishings of their Winter Palace guest suite. "You'll be disqualified if you do that." 

"Sorry," Lavellan murmured. "Give me a hint." 

"A _hint?_ How the mighty have fallen." 

"You just woke me up, you ass. I'm not at my best." 

"Very well: I am currently in view of your beloved nature, but still in civilized enough conditions to bear it." 

Lavellan lifted his head with confusion. "How far away are you?" 

"Not far." 

_Oh_ , Lavellan thought. With some difficulty, he pushed himself up with his right arm. Then he slid out of their preposterous wyvern bed, padded down the two steps from the bedchamber, through the archway into the main room of their guest suite, then out the glass doors onto the admittedly very civilized stone balcony, with its view across to the windmill-dotted villages in the hills. 

Sitting there at the table -- which was decked with antique floral china, including a pot of tea and a tray of the tiniest, most laboriously constructed pastries -- Dorian was looking up at him with a smile. "Ah, good morning! That was a rather substantial hint, wasn't it? I believe that means I win." 

Lavellan frowned deeply. He was the picture of dishevelment: squinting as though he'd never seen the sun before, wearing just a loose cotton shirt and smallclothes, the bandage around his left stump just starting to fray, and his thick curls clearly having been pressed out of order after a long night on a pillow. He brought up his right hand, rubbing it through his hair, making everything worse.

Dorian laughed fondly at the sight of this and Lavellan had no idea why, which made him frown harder. 

"You're adorable," Dorian said. "It just tickles me that the man who saved the entire world looks like _this_ first thing in the morning." 

"We can't all be effortlessly handsome at all hours of the day," Lavellan said irritably. 

"Don't get touchy. I just said you were adorable." Dorian pushed out the chair opposite himself with his foot. "Sit! I need you to try these pastries. Some of them are downright unfathomable." 

"In a good way or a bad way?" Lavellan asked, taking his seat. 

"I'm not sure, honestly... I was hoping you might help me decide." 

"Oh. Great." Lavellan eyed the colourful selection in front of him, then looked up at Dorian again, who was smiling amiably at him. All about them was the pleasant green of the Orlesian countryside, the ornate stonework of the Winter Palace, the ridiculously fancy china set in front of them, the majestically uncomfortable wrought-iron chairs they sat in... 

Here he was, sitting on an Orlesian palace balcony with an excessively handsome human man who he was completely in love with. And for a moment, he felt in him the remnants of that distant, apathetic young man who let lonely travellers fuck him in caves. Would that version of himself have even believed this could be in his future? 

Of course, there was a wealth of further implausible details that the younger version of himself would never have believed. Being forced to lead the Inquisition. Physically entering the Fade. Losing half an arm to the effects of some magical artifact. And then there was the former friend and mentor who was now literally trying to destroy everything... 

But of course all the trauma was worth it, he wanted to assure his younger self. Truly, gaining Dorian was worth anything. All the missing limbs and uncomfortable Orlesian chairs in the world. 

And yet, soon enough, Dorian would be gone. And what would he be left with, exactly? What was the purpose of everything then? 

"You've got some melancholy on your face there," Dorian said. "Not at breakfast!" 

"Sorry. Just thinking."

"Well, stop that," Dorian said. "Here, I know what will cheer you up: some unfathomable pastries. Go on, have one. I can't stand being alone in this suffering." 

"Well, with that sort of ringing endorsement..." Lavellan scanned the tray, then snatched up an odd pink puff crusted with he didn't even know what, shoving the whole of it into his mouth. 

Dorian leaned in eagerly, watching as Lavellan chewed once, twice, his face drawing into a grimace. "Mmf -- what on..." 

"I don't know!" Dorian said, clearly delighted. "I have no idea."

Lavellan was chewing long and slow, seeming to be torn between swallowing it down and spitting it out. At last, he squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed. "Creators, what is in that? Strawberries and mushrooms and... salt?" 

"Mushrooms, you say? There's a theory... I thought it might be cherries and pork fat." 

Lavellan fairly gagged. "Plausible... I hate this country."

"I know, love," Dorian said. "Now, _please_ , I beg you to try the pointy green one. It's been bothering me for almost an hour."

"This is what you woke me up for, really?"

"What can I say?" Dorian said with an easy smile. "I was starting to miss you."

That one hurt. It legitimately and unnecessarily hurt, squeezing inside Lavellan's chest, sending an odd spark down his left arm. He felt the tiniest prickling of tears in his eyes and wondered just when he had become so damn sensitive. 

But the truth was that he really did miss Dorian already. He missed him from every day stretching ahead of him in the future, and every single day in the past where he had been a misguided young man with no earthly idea that someone like Dorian could possibly exist for him. He missed Dorian deeply, painfully, from those days. And on a lovely calm morning like this one, where Dorian was here and they were free to spend every waking moment together, Lavellan knew all of that that made no fucking sense whatsoever, and yet that didn't ease the feeling one bit.

"I love you, Dorian," Lavellan said.

Dorian drew his brows together, attempting to read Lavellan's face. He wondered if there might be another emotional explosion on the horizon. "Are you--"

"Enough to eat this pointy green thing for you," Lavellan said. "So you had just better appreciate that."

"Oh, trust me, I do," Dorian said. "There's no one in the entire world I'd rather suffer through this pretentious breakfast with."

"Charming," Lavellan said, and he popped the pointy green thing in his mouth, then promptly gagged. " _Fenedhis_..."

"I know!" Dorian crowed. "It's excruciating."


	2. More things you should say to your partner instead of yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ghastly business, feelings. I try not to have them, myself."
> 
> Sure, Dorian.

* * *

Dorian couldn't help but think that Lavellan was being worryingly compliant this evening. He had hardly even argued over the logistics of the sex they were currently having.

Under normal circumstances, Lavellan spent every hour of every day wound up, anxious and alert, but in this moment he was practically languid. Dorian would almost dare to think Lavellan had relaxed -- or maybe he was just that exhausted.

Should Dorian be concerned here? Was this normal? A by-product of a high-quality mattress? Or just a natural consequence of a long day spent having one's entire world order shattered and one's left arm abruptly removed...? 

Actually, yes. That last one was rather convincing.

Between slow, heavy breaths, pulling the sheets between the fingers of his right hand, Lavellan loosely mumbled Dorian's name, a few times.

"Yes?" Dorian asked, like they were discussing the weather.

Lavellan stared blankly ahead for a moment, then said, "I am so comfortable right now."

Dorian laughed -- hot, flickering breath on Lavellan's neck. "So, suddenly you're less opposed to luxury?"

"When it involves you, maybe. Then it's all right."

"Very well, then, because you asked..." Dorian halted what he was doing, clapping a hand over his heart. "I solemnly swear to bravely occupy any and all of the lavish palace suites you require me to occupy, no matter how difficult it gets."

Lavellan snorted, already seeming half asleep. "Shut up. You talk _so much_."

"Here I thought you enjoyed listening to me talk."

"Sometimes," Lavellan said, his eyes slipping shut. "When you're not supposed to be fucking me instead."

"Well, pardon me. We can get back to that in a moment. But first, I actually had this rather fascinating theory on Veil-warp differential that I thought I'd run by you..."

" _Dorian_." Now that sounded a bit more like his usual self. "Please! I might literally explode."

"That won't do," Dorian said. "It's not as though you've got limbs to spare, is it?"

Lavellan got as far as curling his lip for an irritated retort before Dorian firmly redoubled his efforts, causing Lavellan to white-knuckle the sheets in reflex, his response dissolving into a gasp and a swear.

It was unprecedented, how fast Lavellan fell asleep that night. Dorian could have sworn Lavellan had actually drifted off halfway through orgasm. He didn't know whether to be flattered or offended.

"Don't mind me, love," Dorian said, as he gently mopped some mess off the both of them with a fittingly atrocious Orlesian pillow sham. "I'll just take care of this, shall I..."

Lavellan mumbled something unconscious.

"Fair enough," Dorian said, and he carefully folded up the pillow sham to hide the mess, stuffed it into some gauche vase, then slid back into the bed, pulling the covers carefully over both of them.

He watched Lavellan for a while, hoping this might inspire him to similar heights of contentedness, though it didn't seem to be working. In truth, Dorian had come away from this day feeling rather rattled himself. And now that he had a quiet moment to himself, Dorian was slowly, hesitantly unspooling the day's tightly packed emotions and attempting to get them in order.

The predominant image in his mind was that of Lavellan disappearing through that last eluvian. And along with this, Dorian found himself thinking back on his own behaviour and regretting it, wishing he could just fold up his explosive display and tuck it back inside himself, unseen.

 _Nowhere to go but forward_ , he told himself. _Now appreciate this bed and stop dwelling._ He fussily adjusted his pillow, shutting his eyes, attempting to join Lavellan in sleep.

But he saw it even more clearly when his eyes were shut: Lavellan's form melting through the rippling surface of the eluvian. And then, after a few short seconds, the entire mirror petering out from animated light into featureless darkness.

* * *

Dorian and Cassandra skidded to a stop just moments before they hit the eluvian, knocking into each other and tripping over their own feet in the process. Behind them, Vivienne reared back with a touch more grace. 

"What?" Dorian said, staring at the blank eluvian before them. "No..."

"Maker, what is the problem?" Vivienne asked from behind them.

Cassandra gingerly skimmed her fingers over the surface. "It has closed," she said. "But why?"

They circled about it, exchanging helpless glances, waiting for something to change, for the increasingly unlikely chance that this was a momentary mistake. They tried carefully examining it, touching it from all sides. Eventually, Dorian began throwing out a series of desperate spells, cursing under his breath, watching the magic split and dissipate over the eluvian’s surface like harmless beads of water.

At length, Vivienne said, "It seems that isn’t working, my dear."

"I told him," Dorian said. "I told him after Adamant -- I’ve told him a thousand times not to run ahead of us like that. If he would just _listen_ to me for once..."

Cassandra attempted to place a hand on Dorian’s arm, as he paced right past her. He could hear, in her voice, a determination to keep calm in spite of things: "He could not have foreseen this."

"We have to do something," Dorian said, looking wildly between Cassandra and Vivienne, as if one of them might have some hidden expertise on this matter. "Well? Don’t just stand there! What is our plan here? How can we get this open?"

"We know that these things require a key," Vivienne said. She had her arms folded, looking rather more grave than usual. "Without knowing what that is, I’m not certain there is anything we can do."

"Well -- well, that’s not acceptable," Dorian said. "There must be something. Something we can try, at least. Anything."

"Dorian, we... saw what Corypheus went through to open the eluvian at the temple," Cassandra said, her voice now brimming full of regret, which in this moment made Dorian feel increasingly enraged. "If there was any shortcut, he would undoubtedly have found it."

Dorian couldn't stop himself -- he threw up his hands, gestured angrily at her. "How can you just give up like that? This is your _friend_ we’re talking about! What's happened to your resolve?" Dorian wheeled on Vivienne, then: "And you! Court Enchanter, you’re always banging on about your power, well, fucking help me then! What do we do here? Surely you must have some ideas!"

With a cool edge to her voice, Vivienne said, "We do not typically keep dangerous elven artifacts at court."

"It had been open this entire time, until just now--" Cassandra began.

"And now someone has closed it," Vivienne said. "That cannot be an accident. It must have been intentional."

Dorian cursed at the mere thought of what that might mean, pressing his face into one palm.

"But we do not know for what purpose it was closed," Cassandra said. "It might yet be opened again, if we wait."

"And if it was closed intentionally, for what purpose would it be opened again?" Vivienne asked.

"Perhaps the Inquisitor will find a way to open it from his side," Cassandra said.

(In retrospect, Dorian wished he had been the one to make Cassandra's points, but he hadn't. His brain had rather just been numb and buzzing with panic.)

"How long can we afford to stand idly about, waiting for that to happen?" Vivienne asked. "Would it not be more effective to return to the Winter Palace where we have the resources to find another way?" 

Dorian snapped his head up, then. "Another way?! Another way to where? We have no idea where this even leads!" 

"So, then, what course of action are you proposing?" Vivienne asked.

"Whatever it is, I am not leaving here without him."

"And if the one behind us should close as well?" Vivienne asked. "We could be trapped here ourselves. How much help will we be able to bring him then?" 

"Stop talking," Dorian said. "I don't care what you have to say. As long as he is in there, I am not leaving. Do you understand?" 

"What about Morrigan?" Cassandra asked hastily. "She knows more than most about eluvians. Could we contact her, could she help us with this?" 

Dorian now redirected his incredulity in Cassandra’s direction: "What are you talking about? _Morrigan?_ We don't even know where she is! How many _weeks_ will it take us to find her?"

"And you have a prior engagement, we are aware," Vivienne said. "Not to worry, my dear. If you wish to speed off to Tevinter, trust that we will continue to handle things here."

Dorian just stared at her, briefly speechless with incoherent rage.

Attempting to take a gentler tone, Cassandra said, "Unless this eluvian simply opens itself again, we may need to seek other options, Dorian. It might be our only choice." 

"Agreed," Vivienne said. "I do not wish to abandon our Inquisitor. Quite the contrary. It's for his sake that we have to do what is best right now, even if it's difficult." 

"You cannot be serious," Dorian said. "'Do what's best'? _You_ are telling _me_ what is best for him? It has been absolutely no time at all and you are already content to turn away and abandon him to the fucking Crossroads! Go, then, but I will not leave him here, I refuse!" 

"You are being unfair, my dear." 

"And you are simply looking out for yourself. No big surprise, that. It's what you do best, after all..." 

"Please," Cassandra said. "We cannot afford to fight with each other right now--"

"If you insist on remaining here, then you will be one more person needing rescue through the Inquisition's resources," Vivienne said. "You will be dividing our efforts, darling. Surely you would not wish for your stubbornness to detract from the cause of finding your man?"

"This is absolutely incredible," Dorian said. "Spinning your own convenient interests as selfless pragmatism! We are not here to play the fucking Game, Madame de Fer."

"Dorian, you are distraught. Understandable as that might be, you must admit to yourself that you are not in a position to be objective about our current situation."

"Oh, is that so! Well, thank goodness we brought _you_ along, the queen of objectivity and self-sacrifice, here to set our course! Tell me, how quickly _should_ one up and abandon the man they love? Is it after one or two minutes? I can never remember..."

"For the last time, I am not suggesting we abandon him. I am trying to help. I am sorry if that simple fact is beyond your grasp."

"Oh, yes, because I’m so very--"

"Enough!" Cassandra said, raising her voice above theirs, holding up her arms between them. "None of this is helping us! We need to--"

And then suddenly the eluvian burst back into wakefulness, light swirling out across its surface. 

There was a brief, shocked pause. And then Dorian bolted straight on through, with Cassandra and Vivienne not far behind.

* * *

Dorian opened his eyes again to the dark of their room, to the silk sheets and the sound of Lavellan snuffling in his sleep like a congested baby nug.

The regret over his tone stung sharp even now. Losing his composure like that would have been unseemly in any case. But here Dorian had handed those raw, sensitive feelings to Vivienne, of all people: the undisputed champion of weaponizing other people's weaknesses.

What clever things would she have to say about him once he was gone? Dorian struggled to even imagine it. He could hardly afford to have Vivienne throwing jibes around about what a mess he was. That was the last thing he wanted Lavellan to hear about.

Of course, Dorian was afraid to lose Lavellan. That went without saying. But he couldn't allow himself to be the one showing weakness here -- not when he was the one who had decided to leave. Unilaterally, at that. He hadn't even given Lavellan the chance to argue the matter -- because, in all honesty, there was no point in arguing it. 

Even if fixing his homeland was an insurmountable task, Dorian needed to _try._ Because Lavellan had never stopped in the face of something insurmountable, and Dorian felt he owed it to Lavellan to be the same way. He would hardly be worthy of Lavellan's affections otherwise. 

And Tevinter wasn't safe -- not for the heretical southern Inquisitor, and certainly not for the small Dalish elf from the Free Marches. He'd never dare expose Lavellan to such risk. Which left him at this impasse: go off and be the person Lavellan deserved, or stay at Lavellan's side like a coward.

How were you meant to say that to someone? That you're leaving because you love them and they deserve it? There was no way to make that sound like anything other than madness.

But in there, somewhere, Dorian knew that he had to go. And it seemed Lavellan knew that too. Even when he had briefly broken down this evening, tried to walk the decision back, Lavellan hadn't let him do it. And Dorian had been disappointed and relieved at the same time, and he wasn't sure which feeling was stronger, not that it really mattered at the end of the day.

In any case, Dorian couldn't allow himself to be the emotional one right now. Lavellan was clearly in pieces, and that was his right. If anything, Dorian's role should be to aggressively cheer up his partner as long as they were still together. He couldn't be selfishly falling apart over his own decision. If the point was not to be a coward, then he should commit to not being one.

But the very idea of leaving was still turning his stomach. Particularly when he knew the rest of them would undoubtedly be talking about his seemingly heartless decision the moment he was gone. And all of those critical voices would be much closer to Lavellan's ears than Dorian's voice would.

He had all but primed Vivienne for it, after all. They had left their heated exchange on the near side of the eluvian: by the time they found Lavellan, collapsed on the ground, hunched over his dissolving left arm, their argument had been quietly set aside. But, then, they hadn't made actual eye contact again. Not once. Not even when Vivienne casually lay down the first barb: though she would usually bait people with a daring gaze directly into their eyes, this time she had done it while coolly examining her fingernails.

Dorian had wanted to help. So he had actually offered to carry Lavellan, as ridiculous as that was. Dorian didn't just _carry_ things. But Lavellan was hurting, and Dorian hadn't really done much about it -- he just knelt there in the dust, holding Lavellan as he writhed in pain, and watching uselessly as Cassandra carried out the gruesome task of cutting the last bits of Fade-wasted flesh from the living, freckled skin above Lavellan's elbow. Lavellan had looked at the three of them and immediately begged Cassandra to do this. He hadn't even considered asking anyone else.

"Comfort him," Cassandra had whispered, prompting Dorian to remember that it was inappropriate to just sit there in mute horror, that he ought to be trying to keep Lavellan still, to be whispering reassurances in Lavellan's ear. He had actually needed Cassandra to remind him of that.

And when they'd gotten Lavellan to his feet he had looked so weak and pale that Dorian had actually offered to carry him. He would have done so, gladly. But the offer just made Lavellan (barely, weakly) laugh, which was almost as good. Dorian had a rather desperate need to make Lavellan laugh, especially on days like this.

"Feats of strength from a mage? Please," Lavellan had said, wearing his usual grin, though it was shaken and unsteady. "We all know that won’t end well... I can walk, it’s all right."

"I can manage it," Dorian had said, and then he'd gestured at Lavellan’s left arm. "You’re at least slightly lighter than you were, anyway."

He would never forget the crashing wave of holy outrage across Cassandra's face. "Dorian!"

Lavellan had stared at him with disbelief for a second, then miraculously, mercifully laughed aloud. " _Really?_ " 

If there was one thing Lavellan craved, it was genuine laughter in a dark place. Dorian had figured that out a long time ago. 

"Just trying to keep up morale," Dorian had said. "Shall we?"

And then Vivienne had cut in, while studying her fingernails with a casual air: "You're awfully glib for a man who was quite literally losing his mind a few minutes ago." She had looked at Lavellan, then. "You should have seen it, darling. Our Dorian was rather beside himself over you."

And then Lavellan had looked back at Dorian with guilt and uncertainty and other such unfair, unnecessary things.

"Yes, all right, thank you," Dorian had snapped. That was clearly not the point. The point was to lift Lavellan's spirits, not burden him with unimportant concerns. That's what Dorian was _for_ \-- shoving bright expressions onto Lavellan's serious face. And yet soon enough he'd be off in another country, where he wouldn't be able to keep watch on Lavellan's expressions at all.

It drove Dorian increasingly mad the more he thought about it. He knew there was no choice but to take the brave path to Tevinter, and yet the uncertainty of it all was overwhelming. Dorian ran his mouth endlessly, yes -- he talked "so much," as Lavellan had just helpfully reminded him -- because it gave him a sense of control. It reassured Dorian to assert himself within Lavellan's awareness, to watch Lavellan laugh in real time, as if in confirmation: "yes, you are still able to make me love you." But he knew that by departing he would be leaving Lavellan free to all the other noisy voices of the world, with ample space and opportunity for Lavellan to change his mind about loving him. And that, quite frankly, was absolute rubbish.

"Dorian," Lavellan mumbled.

He turned his head Lavellan's way. Was he actually awake? "Hmm?"

"Stop that," Lavellan said, and he tossed the other way.

Dorian grinned in spite of himself. Asleep, clearly. But perhaps he ought to take the advice anyway. There was absolutely nothing dignified about brooding in the dark.

* * *

Lavellan had his chin in his hand, staring off from their breakfast on the balcony and into the Orlesian countryside. The breeze was playing through his curls, which were slowly settling back from pillow-trauma into their natural unruliness. He said, "Do you remember the night we broke into that hunter's cabin?"

"You mean, the night _you_ broke into that hunter's cabin while I stood there, an innocent bystander to your heinous crimes?"

Lavellan flicked his eyes back Dorian's way, raising a brow. "You aren't innocent. Not by any definition of the word."

"Slandering my virtue? Well, I won't stand for this."

"True... Usually I slander your virtue while we're lying down."

At that, Dorian laughed with delight. "Well played! Yes, I remember the hunter's cabin. What about it?"

"Just..." Lavellan glanced back out to the hills. "That was nice."

"Surely you aren't pining for rustic cabins while we're staying in the epicentre of Orlesian vanity and indulgence."

"A little bit, maybe."

"You can't be serious. Here I've worked tirelessly to negotiate you some wyvern down, and now you're telling me what you actually want is a wooden plank with a moth-eaten, hay-stuffed sack of a mattress?"

Lavellan laughed, running his hand through his hair again, causing even more disarray. "Let's not go that far. I just... it was a nice night, that's all."

"You spent it in my company, naked. Of course it was nice."

"...Yes, exactly."

Dorian leaned back in his chair, grinning a bit. "Do you remember how Cassandra screamed at us when we tried to sneak back into camp?"

For a moment, Lavellan looked lost, and then his eyes widened. "Oh... no! I completely forgot..."

" _We thought the Venatori had taken you!_ " Dorian cried, in his best simulation of her improbable accent. " _I was about to call for a platoon of soldiers to storm the forests!_ "

"Apologies, my dear," Lavellan said, in his best smug Dorian voice, with eyebrows to match. "We had business to handle. If you understand what I mean by 'handle.'"

Dorian was familiar enough with this impersonation not to bat an eyelash. "Is that actually what I said?"

"Something like that, anyway. I think she was flustered for an entire day."

"Poor thing. What did she do to deserve us?"

"Nothing bad enough, surely," Lavellan said. "If there's ever been anyone worthy of being called Inquisitor, it's her. She really held our shit together."

A knock came from the door inside their suite, and the two of them looked over.

"I'll get that," Dorian said, pushing out his chair. "And you might consider putting on some trousers? Just a thought."

Lavellan glanced down. "Oh... shit." He sprang to his feet and made off for the bedchamber.

Dorian strolled inside, pausing to sweep the heavy curtains shut across the archway to the bedchamber, for the sake of Lavellan's privacy. Though the knocking was growing increasingly insistent, he in no way hurried his pace as he crossed to the far end of the suite, where he opened the door to reveal the grinning duo that was Sera and Varric, still his Inquisition drinking partners of choice.

"You aren't doing it right now, are you?" Sera asked.

Dorian looked down at himself -- he was distinctly clothed -- and back up again. "Does it look like I'm 'doing it'?"

"Well, I dunno," Sera said, and then she ambled right in, making for the nearest gold-embroidered chaise-longue.

"We don't want to interrupt, is what Buttercup's trying to say," Varric said. "Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all! Come in, he'll be happy to see you."

"We're here to see you too, stupid," Sera said. "Aren't you the one leaving us?"

"You still have a few days left with me, as it turns out," Dorian said. "Treasure them appropriately."

"Why do you think we came?" Varric asked, settling himself in an armchair.

"Obviously showering me with your love and affection would be the top priority," Dorian said. "Though, after yesterday, I wouldn't blame you if you also might've wanted to check in on our ex-Inquisitor's well-being."

Sera and Varric exchanged a glance, then looked about the room. "Where is he right now?" Varric asked, a little quieter.

"Just getting dressed. Give him a few moments."

Sera pulled a face. "Ugh, you _were_ doing it."

"Not _just_ now..."

"No further clarification needed," Varric said, holding up a hand. "But I'll assume that means he's at least somewhat okay?"

"At least somewhat, yes," Dorian said. "Anyway, you know what he's like... Was that even the worst thing that's ever happened to him? Who can possibly say?"

"I don't know," Varric said. "That's an awfully philosophical proposition, Sparkler. What _is_ the worst thing that's ever happened to our beloved Inquisitor?"

" _Ex-_ Inquisitor," Dorian said. "Honestly, do call him that. He'll be delighted."

"Oh, piss," Sera said, sitting bolt upright -- then she reached into her sleeve, tugging out a rolled-up piece of paper. "Quick! Before he gets done... someone give me a quill!"

* * *

In the far back corner of the bedchamber, as quietly as he could manage it, Lavellan was gasping for breath. 

He wasn't sure if he was crying or panicking. And neither reaction particularly made sense. "It's just a pair of trousers," he whispered to himself. 

But it was more than that, clearly. It was the fact that he suddenly didn't know how to put them on.

All his life, Lavellan has been agile, capable, good with his hands. He had measured the entirety of his worth as a person by the strength of those skills. Now, a full-grown adult, he was slowly realizing just how many things he habitually used two hands for, and, by extension, just how many basic things he was suddenly inept at.

 _You still got your clothes off last night, didn't you?_ he asked himself. And then the realization: _No. No, you didn't. Dorian took them off for you._

Now there were tears, definitely. Here was the one person in the entire world who he would trust enough to actually ask the ridiculous question of 'would you please help me put on my trousers,' and that person was about to leave the fucking country.

 _Get it together,_ Lavellan told himself. _You are absolutely not calling Dorian in to help you with this. You are a grown man. You've done a million improbable things these past few years. Surely you can find the strength within yourself to put on a pair of bloody trousers._

Lavellan took the trousers in his hand. Flapped them out. Stared at them. Then he dropped them on the floor, kicking them around with his feet until he could step into the leg holes, then stooping down and grabbing hold -- and slowly dragging the trousers up with his one hand, first pulling up one side to catch on his knee, then switching to the other side, and back and forth.

_There. See? Not so hard. You just need to be patient for about three seconds of your life. You've been patient before, right? Once? Maybe?_

Getting his belt on took a small eternity, each tiny little motion needing to be made in isolation, but he felt a flash of pure prideful victory when he finally managed to poke the bar through the appropriate punch hole.

At last, having successfully donned his trousers, Lavellan studied his shirts for a long while, then looked down at the plain undershirt he was currently wearing, then back up again.

_Nope. Fuck it. That's more than enough effort for one morning._

* * *

When Lavellan finally emerged into the sitting area of the guest suite, Sera, Varric and Dorian all looked up from the coffee table, where they were crowded around something.

"Hey!" Sera said brightly.

"You okay, kid?" Varric asked.

Lavellan stared at them, mulling this question. It must have been obvious that he had been crying. And despite having managed to get some trousers on, he was still completely dishevelled -- he must be. He could tell just from Dorian's face. (How to even describe Dorian's trademark "you are dishevelled" face? "Fond concern," perhaps...)

"You know," Lavellan said at length, "it is pretty fucking hard to get dressed with one hand."

His friends laughed. Thank the Maker that they decided to laugh. He supposed they knew him well enough by this point not to take any detours into embarrassing sympathy.

"I didn't even think about that," Dorian said. "You should have said something! I could've helped you."

"I am a fully grown adult person," Lavellan said. "I am not asking you to put on my trousers."

_Except I was really, really close to asking you to put on my trousers._

"Blast," Dorian said. "There you go, ruining my excuse to grope you unnecessarily."

"You don't need an _excuse_ ," Lavellan said.

"Tell me about it," Varric said. "We've seen more than enough of you two to verify that statement."

Dorian scoffed. "Rubbish. We are incredibly proprietous, well-behaved gentlemen."

"Not after a whole bottle, you're not," Sera said.

"Oh, come on," Lavellan said. "One time!"

"Three times," Sera and Varric said in unison.

"They're just jealous, darling," Dorian said. "More importantly, it seems Sera has brought you something."

"Yeah, well. Just wanted to make sure you weren't too busy feeling serious and sad and things." Sera got to her feet, whipping a crinkled sheet of paper off the coffee table and holding it aloft.

Lavellan stepped forward, taking a closer look. It was an intricate drawing of himself, a seriously well-armoured crossbow in place of his left arm, the whole of him surrounded by a hopefully allied swarm of vicious bees. Above it, in block letters: 

VERY  
BRILLIANT  
EX-INQUISITOR

(The _EX-_ was added on in smaller letters and slightly darker ink, still shining and wet.)

"Incredible," Lavellan said. "Magnificent. Sera, I love you."

Sera giggled with satisfaction, then said, "Aw, shut up."

* * *

Dorian had popped over to the other side of the guest suite, seeking the appropriate set of glasses from a cabinet, when he noticed that Sera had followed him there. She picked up the lid of an empty golden urn that was displayed on a ludicrously tiny table, examined the lid from all sides, then dropped it back upside-down.

"All right?" Sera asked.

"In what sense?"

"I mean, did he wind up kicking your arse for not telling him sooner? Because I would've." 

"No, he did not," Dorian said. "Though he likely should have, finding out that way.... I told Varric not to make that inopportune toast." 

"Well, why the fuck did you even tell us before you told him? Because we're _so good_ at keeping our mouths shut?" 

"Stop having insight, Sera. I don't appreciate that."

"Pfft," Sera said. "You're scared."

"Do you have to say that so loudly?" Dorian asked irritably. “And, fine, so? What of it?”

"Well, why are you pretending you're not?"

"Perhaps I'm trying not to trouble him."

"You're leaving, stupid," Sera said. "Pretty sure he's troubled about that."

"Not like that," Dorian said. "Look, just, never mind, please."

"You know, sometimes when you spend _way too much time_ thinking about something, it just means you end up screwing it all up."

"Did you not hear me? I have had quite enough of your folksy wisdom for one day," Dorian said, and he ushered her back towards the sitting area. "Move!"

Sera blew him a raspberry.

"...I mean, Lowtown at night can be dicey, of course, but that's really the case for any city," Varric was saying, as Dorian and Sera returned to them with glasses in hand. "And I do have that place set aside for you..."

"Oh, no," Dorian said. "Not this again! Don't tell me he's convinced you."

"Not necessarily," Lavellan said. "I'm just thinking about it."

"Kirkwall is not that bad, Sparkler," Varric said.

Dorian folded his arms. "It is a murderous shithole."

"Yes, well, no one is disputing that, exactly. I'm just saying it's a murderous shithole with a lot of unique charms." Varric attempted to smile convincingly. "Plus, it's closer to your homeland than Skyhold is. That's something, right?"

"That would be a point, if there were nothing but wasteland between Kirkwall and the Tevinter border."

"Oh, come on, where is he going to go that's closer? _Starkhaven?_ That's no better. That place is run by a prize asshole."

Lavellan cleared his throat. "I shall be deciding for myself which murderous shithole to hang my coat in, thank you very much."

"Could you not just retire to some safe, quiet stronghold instead?" Dorian asked. "Honestly. If I wanted you murdered, I'd just bring you to Minrathous."

That line did not land as intended. There was no laugh -- not even that pliable scowl that accompanied so much of their banter. It was just a cold, unimpressed face. The worst one.

Dorian felt his shoulders hitch up in reflex. "That... I apologize," he said, though he wasn't fully sure why.

Lavellan looked at him for a moment, then said, "If you want to convince me it isn't an option, then don't make jokes like it is."

 _'Convince'?_ Dorian thought. _Oh, please, no._ Taking insurmountable obstacles and deciding they weren't insurmountable -- that was Lavellan's _thing._ If "coming to Tevinter" was suddenly registering as an obstacle in his field of awareness, this might all end in horrible disaster.

"I'm sorry," Dorian said again, seeking a reasonable, dissuading tone. "I didn't mean -- you know it isn't safe there. You'd be a target. If anything happened, I'd--"

"Let's please not talk about this right now," Lavellan said, now studying his hand.

Sera and Varric were exchanging a glance to the effect of: _abort._ "You're absolutely right, ex-Inquisitor," Varric said. "Let's not talk about depressing futures when we could be doing something much more entertaining, like making an early lunch of this excellent brandy that Sera stole from the cellar."

Lavellan raised his brows. "Wait, you... broke into the wine cellar? Of the Winter Palace? Just like that?"

"Tch, yeah, they don't even use keys like normal people, it's just statues and shite. What is that, even?"

"Orlesians," Dorian said. "If it's not impractical, they won't even bother."

As they cheerfully ignored the inappropriate hour of the day by pouring the brandy in four snifters, Dorian kept a worried eye on Lavellan. He was watching Varric say something now, half-smiling again. 

At least there was this. At least he would have other people around who could cheer him up in Dorian's absence. That was something. It would have to be enough.

* * *

In all honesty, Dorian had started to regret his decision before he'd even taken a seat. But when he'd caught Vivienne's eye as he strolled through the courtyard pavilion, he'd felt the sudden urge to handle things like an adult, for a change. 

So here he was, attempting, as best he could, to be the bigger person. That was the unfortunate theme of this week, evidently.

Dorian sat forward under the unrelenting, headmistress-y steel of Vivienne's gaze, hands clasped into each other, twiddling his thumbs. "I wanted to apologize to you," he said.

"Did you?" Vivienne asked, sounding amused. Of all things, she had to be _amused_. "Whatever for?"

 _Please don't make me articulate this any more than I have to._ "Does that matter?"

Vivienne let out a brief, controlled laugh. "Does it _matter?_ I would think the basis of your apology is rather central here, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, all right, be logical..." Dorian sighed, folding his arms, studying the ceiling. "I suppose I am apologizing for my behaviour yesterday. I said some things to you that were unfair. I regret that."

"My dear, it was a frightening situation. You were very upset and you lost control. It happens."

 _'....to mere mortals unlike myself,'_ Dorian finished in his head.

Vivienne appeared to be waiting for him to say something else. When he didn't, she went on, "You have an interesting turn-of-phrase when you're angry, I'll give you that. What was it you called me? 'The queen of objectivity and self-sacrifice'?"

 _Ah, but you remembered it word for word,_ Dorian thought. _That means it bothered you. That means I win!_

_(No, Dorian. Bigger person. Bigger person.)_

"It's not a bad title," she said with a smile. "If you dust off the frothing sarcasm, that is."

"Yes, well," Dorian said. "My apologies. Ghastly business, feelings. I usually try not to have them, myself."

"I absolutely agree," Vivienne said. "Which is why you couldn't possibly hurt mine. It's rather amusing that you would think you might have."

"Why, I wouldn't dream of thinking something like that," Dorian said. "But I still spoke out of turn, so I apologize. I wouldn't want there to be any... simmering resentment between us."

Vivienne laughed at him again. "How precious. I accept your apology."

"Oh? Good. Thank you." Dorian caught sight of Lavellan walking their way, then jumped to his feet. "Well, then! Have a lovely day. Until later. Et cetera."

He could swear he felt her judging his back as he walked off. Had this even improved matters? Who could even say.

"What was that about?" Lavellan asked.

"Oh... I was just... making an apology, like a mature adult."

Lavellan raised his brows. "Okay... And what were you actually doing?"

"I beg your pardon! You think I can't make amends? I am an incredibly reasonable and conciliatory human being."

"Of course," Lavellan said. "What did you do that so needed apologizing for?"

"Oh, I just said a rude thing to her. Thought it might be best to request forgiveness. I didn't want her to vengefully shank me in my sleep."

"And what was this rude thing you said?"

" _Inquisitor_ was an apt moniker for you, you know that?" Dorian said, poking Lavellan in that ribs. "It seems I might have informed her that she was selfish and horrible and other such things. It was a weak moment."

Lavellan's eyes widened. "When did you do that??"

"Yesterday. It doesn't matter."

"Oh, no, Dorian..."

Dorian felt his shoulders sag. "Disappointed in me, are you?"

"Are you joking? You dared insult Vivienne to her face? I'm disappointed I didn't see it!" Lavellan got on his toes, tugging on Dorian’s sleeve until he hunched down, so Lavellan could hiss in his ear. "How did she react? What venomous retort did she come up with? Tell me _every -- single -- thing._ "

"That's funny... I'm suddenly remembering why I adore you so."

Lavellan laughed. "Does that mean you'd forgotten?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Dorian said. "Come. Let's get back behind a safely locked door. Then maybe I'll tell you what her reaction was..."

 _As if that was something I could forget. I would never forget,_ Dorian thought, as they headed back for their suite. _I just hope to hell there's a chance you won't, either._


	3. Some actual distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you’re going to spend some time being purposelessly adrift, you may as well do it in everyone's favourite shithole.
> 
> Is there life after Inquisiting, anyway?

If there was one thing that continued to surprise Lavellan, it was the fact that he wasn't dead yet. 

As far as he was concerned, he'd been on borrowed time ever since he woke up in a cell with a mysterious green light in his hand and Cassandra pointing her entire self at him. The list of things he had been convinced would kill him since then was almost too long to manage: the anchor. Cassandra. Any manner of angry Haven resident with a knife. Time wizards. Red templars. Dragons. Corypheus. Mother Giselle, likely via lightning bolt summoned faithfully down from the heavens. Sera, even, via accidental arrow. Dorian, once, via unreasonable skill at things better not detailed aloud. And then there were possessed Grey Wardens and all the demons and the anchor yet again and now possibly Solas...

Lavellan wasn't sure at what exact point he'd convinced himself he was a dead man, but with a life that kept unfolding the way his had been of late, trying to stay alive seemed almost like a pointless pursuit.

He'd made the mistake of flippantly saying so to Dorian once. "Never say that again," had been the icy response. Still, the feeling of it was unshakable.

Two things had always stuck out as the deadliest contenders from that threatening pile: the anchor itself, of course -- and the fanatical humans. He'd always known that, inevitably, these humans would realize that he wasn't their Herald, that Andraste had nothing to do with him, that he had no idea what he was doing here, that he had no way of possibly solving their problems. And then they'd turn around and execute him, like they'd been wanting to do from the beginning.

Perhaps that had been why, despite the unimaginable danger, he'd never actually much feared Corypheus. In his mind, surviving Corypheus had only ever meant surviving long enough to see himself be executed as a lying heretic. That was hardly a more pleasant conclusion. At least being heroically killed by Corypheus gave him a chance not to damn his companions by association.

Except now the anchor was gone, and Corypheus was defeated, and the Inquisition was disbanded, and Lavellan was free to escape. Well -- somewhat free, at any rate.

Wherever he went, throughout Ferelden and Orlais, someone always seemed to stop and whisper: "That's the Herald." Or, even more ridiculously: "That's him -- the man who saved us." Endless reminders of this absolutely massive fraud that he was still somehow getting away with.

"I didn't save anyone," he'd said to Dorian, in one of a series of emotional meltdowns at the Winter Palace. "Solas is just going to do what Corypheus couldn't. All I did was exchange one threat for another. And lead plenty of people to their deaths in the process."

"Well, I'll say one thing for you," Dorian had said. "You have painfully high standards."

It just seemed unfair, the more Lavellan thought about it. The more he gazed at his conveniently vanished limb. That he could continue to snatch his life back from the brink, while all around him people had followed his flailing attempts at leadership and wound up dead for his cause, with the survivors continuing to praise him for his 'valiant' efforts even so. 

Even Varric. Varric still drank with him, looked him in the eyes, asked him how he was doing, treated him like a friend. Even after Lavellan had led them all spiralling into the abyss and let Varric's best friend be dashed to pieces on the rocks.

More than anything else Lavellan had let happen, that failure haunted him. And even if Varric treated him no differently, Lavellan could tell there was something not right about Varric these days. There had been something quietly off about him ever since.

Clearly Lavellan wasn't off scot-free, here in the wake of the Inquisition; at the very least, there were amends to start making. And he'd have to try, one way or the other. Even if he wasn't yet sure how.

* * *

One of the very last things Dorian said to Lavellan's face, their foreheads pressed together, was: "Please don't go to Kirkwall."

To which Lavellan replied: "Please don't go to Minrathous."

Dorian narrowed his eyes into a squint of pure displeasure. "All right, I concede your point." He took Lavellan's face in his hands. "But... listen to me. I beg you to keep yourself safe. If anything happens to you, all of this will be for nothing."

"What will? You mean not taking me to Tevinter with you? Don't worry, Dorian. I wholeheartedly swear that I won't die anywhere other than at your side." Lavellan raised his shoulders into a partial shrug. "I mean, if I have to go out somehow, I at least want to do it while ruining some of your nice clothes with inconsiderate volumes of my own blood."

Dorian was now staring at him. 

"You know, something to remember me by," Lavellan said.

Dorian continued to stare. Finally, he said, "There is far too much to react to in that statement. I am... paralyzed by indecision."

"No time for that now. Just kiss me, you idiot."

"Fair enough. Thank goodness I have you to order me around."

"Shut up already," Lavellan said, and he tugged Dorian's collar until Dorian bent accommodatingly forward.

(In the weeks that followed, how much time would they both spend revisiting every facet of this particular kiss? Dorian found himself thinking endlessly through the heat of Lavellan's mouth, the way its eagerness betrayed an unspoken desperation, while Lavellan was fixated on the almost reverent touch of Dorian's fingers cradling his jaw...)

When they'd regretfully broken apart, Lavellan asked, "Do you remember what I just said?"

"Which part? Ruining my clothes?"

"I won't die anywhere other than at your side." He squeezed Dorian's hand in his. "Do you understand what that means?"

In that moment, still dizzy with uncertainty and longing and every other unbearable aspect of things, Dorian had pressed his forehead against Lavellan's again and said, "Yes. I do." 

Though, in all honesty, he didn't. Not really, anyway.

Literally, of course, he understood what the words meant. And he'd gathered the general sentiment, which was mostly what he had been responding to -- "yes," in the sense of, "yes, I feel the same way, I'm devoted to you as well." But...

Dorian had mulled endlessly over these words through the painful weeks of his journey back home. And the more he thought about it, the less he felt he knew what Lavellan was actually getting at.

"I won't die anywhere other than at your side." What was that, even? Had it been intended as some form of marriage proposal? Or perhaps a poorly executed suicide pact...? 

Did it mean death was on Lavellan's immediate agenda? That Lavellan meant to ignore Dorian's warning and follow him straight to Tevinter? Maybe that Lavellan planned to drag him back south at the first opportunity? 

Or, maybe, perhaps, could it possibly mean that Lavellan intended to keep safe somewhere until they could finally be reunited to die peacefully of old age? (That was a good one. What were the odds of that one, Dorian wondered?)

While the simple solution would obviously have been just to ask, Dorian found his throat closing up at the thought of it. With Lavellan the way he currently was, it seemed unfair to poke the emotional bear from afar. Dorian felt determined to just keep Lavellan buoyed, to keep their conversations on positive ground.

Particularly since he was fairly sure hearing Lavellan fall to pieces via sending crystal would be enough to make him turn himself irrationally around and head straight back for the muddy south. He couldn't exactly afford that. 

No, for now, Dorian just needed to keep Lavellan happy. Until they found a way to be together. Or until Lavellan left him for someone in more convenient proximity – whichever one came first. Provided, of course, that Lavellan managed to survive long enough for either of those things to occur.

"Keeping myself alive," Lavellan had told Dorian once, "is not exactly my top priority."

That was evident enough. It was made clear in every rash action Lavellan had ever taken in his short life.

But the phrase had always rather stuck in Dorian's craw. He knew that Lavellan never expected to outlive the Inquisition (not that Dorian himself had agreed to this). And in some ways Lavellan was now completely adrift. The idea that he might let death find him, intentionally or not, was a persistent note of panic buried at the back of Dorian's brain.

 _You're not going to kill yourself, are you?_ Was that something you could just casually ask someone after you'd heartlessly abandoned them?

At the end of a long day of travel, the whole of it spent in the nagging grip of these types of thoughts, Dorian at last found a private moment to unearth the sending crystal from his things and wake it from its state of silence.

It instantly came to life -- not dull, but fully vibrant in colour. That meant Lavellan's must not be silenced, either. Which in theory meant he was open to talking. Still, best to be sure... Dorian spoke the phrase to make his crystal receptive, then said, "Hello! Safe to talk?"

There were a few long moments of quiet. Dorian wondered if Lavellan had wandered off and left the crystal lying somewhere.

And then came the sound of Lavellan's voice in mid-laughter: "Hi! I need to get used to that... You scared the shit out of me just now." 

Dorian grinned. "Did you make that silly noise of yours?" 

"I refuse to confirm or deny," Lavellan said. "Where are you tonight?"

"Trapped somewhere in dreariest Nevarra. Don't ask me where. Learning the names of these towns just makes it worse."

"Don't tell me it's drearier than yesterday?"

"Imagine. Whenever I think we've hit the floor on dreariness, they just open up another cellar. I don't know how they manage it. A national talent, I suppose." Dorian hesitated, considering all the ways he could phrase his many pressing and worried questions, then settled for, "Are you... all right?"

"'All right'? What does that mean?"

"Nothing in particular. Just... How are you?"

A slight scoffing sound. "Well, the man I love has up and left me. That's been a bit discouraging."

"What a cad he is," Dorian said. "Although, 'left you' implies he wants nothing more to do with you, and on that I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken. He wants a great deal more to do with you."

Lavellan chuckled. "And I have a great deal more to give to him." Then a pause. "Do you get it? I'm referring to my--"

"Yes, yes. Horrible. Just horrible." 

"You love me," Lavellan said. "You think I'm hilarious."

"Naturally. But my judgment is heavily impaired."

"At the brandy again?"

"Brandy. Lust. Whichever you like."

"Oh, I see." 

There was a pause, then, and Dorian could swear he heard Lavellan's face in the silence. That one where he tipped his head sideways, wrinkling up his brow, shooting an appraising look on the diagonal. The face that clearly said, 'You're not going to like this, Dorian.'

"Listen," Lavellan said. "I'm going to Kirkwall for a while."

He'd known full well this was coming, but still, Dorian filled up his lungs and slowly released the longest, most audible sigh of crushing disappointment. "Self-preservation isn't your forte, is it?"

"You knew that already." Another pause. "I just... it's not a permanent stay. I'm going to travel over with Varric, keep him company for a while. It seems to be what he wants. I think Kirkwall might be a bit difficult for him right now."

"Of course it's difficult. He's the bloody viscount. Would you want to be responsible for the maintenance of a literal flaming wreck?"

"Not like -- well, yes, also like that," Lavellan said. "But I was actually talking more about Hawke."

"Ah."

"Not that he's said so, exactly, but it's obvious. 'Kirkwall feels empty these days,' he told me... I think that's his biggest fear. Not having enough friends about. I mean, imagine Varric alone in an empty room. The idea of it doesn't even make sense, does it? It's almost like a paradox."

"As in, 'if Varric tells a lie and no one is around to hear it'..."

"...'then does Varric even exist?' Exactly. Not that he doesn't have other friends in Kirkwall, of course, but... well, maybe I can help ease him back into it, at least for a little while."

"It's thoughtful of you to support him, love. Just promise me you'll be careful while you do it."

"I will be," Lavellan said. "Though I don't know if thoughtful is the right word, exactly, considering the whole mess is my doing in the first place."

Dorian sighed with exasperation. "Amatus. Not this again, please."

"What? I didn't say I killed him--"

"You're just saying you're responsible. Again. So, as ever, allow me to remind you that we both know it's not that simple."

"I was leading us when it happened, Dorian. I can't take credit for the Inquisition's successes and then turn around and pretend I have nothing to do with its failings."

Dorian laughed aloud. "Credit! That's the most insane part of all this. You refuse to even take credit. According to you, Corypheus spontaneously combusted, the Veil stitched itself up on its own accord, and then you murdered Hawke with your bare hands. Makes plenty of sense, doesn't it?"

Lavellan's voice had grown petulant: "That's not what I said."

"Whatever you said, you are too hard on yourself. That, at least, is not up for debate."

"Fine. Great," Lavellan said. "Here I thought you'd be using this crystal to tell me how much you love me, not to harass me from afar."

"But harassing you is how I express my love. Haven't you worked that out yet?"

"Well, that explains a lot."

"And, anyway, you need me to harass you," Dorian said. "It keeps you on your toes."

"Ugh. I hate you," Lavellan said. 

This joke never lasted. Dorian looked up at the ceiling, counting down to the inevitable guilt. Three... two...

"No, I don't," Lavellan said. "Sorry. I love you. I love you very much and I miss you and I hate that you aren't here with me right this minute."

"But I really am there with you, aren't I?" Dorian said. "Harassing you like always. What more of me do you need?"

"Well, it's something, at least."

* * *

One expected Varric, in general, to exaggerate. One might also expect his sense of how tall people were to be slightly inflated. So Lavellan never quite forgot his first impression of seeing Hawke on the Skyhold battlements and thinking that Varric hadn't really done him justice.

"Tall" was a pitiful understatement. He looked like he might crush objects in his hands. He just radiated body heat, like there was so much muscle packed on and so much blood pumping through him that Hawke actually couldn't physically cool down. He also talked loudly, and laughed even louder -- as if the volume on a man this size was just greater, by default.

All of these facts would have made his presence unbelievable enough, but considering he was the fabled 'Champion of Kirkwall,' having him stand there in Skyhold of all places, laughing with too-loud enjoyment over every near-joke he heard, was downright unnerving.

There hadn't been much time for pleasantries. But in a moment alone, Lavellan had searched Hawke out for an uncharacteristically honest admission. He wasn't sure now whether he was glad to have done so or whether he regretted it all the more.

"This will sound awfully stupid to you," Lavellan had said, "but you were a bit of an inspiration to me."

"You mean you've heard of my many incredible deeds?" Hawke asked, punctuated by a wiggle of his eyebrows.

"Actually, I was talking more about..." Lavellan was increasingly realizing that there was no way _not_ to make this sound stupid. Well, not much he could do now. "I had some trouble, when I was younger... figuring out who I was. Learning that we had a human hero in the Free Marches who also, uh -- liked men... There was a time that was very comforting for me."

Hawke's brows had abruptly stopped wiggling. "What, you too? Let me get this straight. The man who is currently leading all the most faithful humans under the banner of Andraste is not just a Dalish elf, but a gay one? Why, the Chantry must be thrilled." 

"I'm not making it easy for them, surely," Lavellan said. "And, as if that wasn't bad enough, I'm... You've met Dorian, right?" 

Hawke had laughed uproariously at that. "And having it off with a Tevinter mage! That's a pretty good one, Inquisitor."

"Thank you... I think."

"No judgements here, of course," Hawke said, patting Lavellan's shoulder with a warm, broad palm. "You might say I know a thing or two about keeping questionable company." 

"He's not questionable," Lavellan said, with clear irritation -- this was a sentiment he'd found himself repeating frequently at that point in time. "He's proven himself ten times over." 

"Oh, naturally, of course," Hawke said, still smiling. "Honestly, I mean it: no judgements. I know what it's like, being infatuated with someone everyone else thinks is a disaster waiting to happen. I mean, you should have heard Varric when he ferreted out that I was after Fenris." He put on a convincingly gravelly Varric voice: "'The Tevinter elf? You do know he's covered in spikes? Like an angsty porcupine?'" 

"...Covered in spikes? Is that a metaphor?" 

Hawke's eyebrows popped up again and he said, "Actually, yes! But mostly, no." 

"Literal spikes, then?" 

"You could say he's a prickly person," Hawke said. "And that goes for his armour as well. But it turns out he's also one of my few friends who has not _directly_ caused disaster and widespread loss of innocent life in Kirkwall. Shows what you know, Varric..." 

"So... don't listen to Varric, then," Lavellan said. "Understood."

Hawke had let out another booming laugh to echo over the battlements. " _Always_ listen to Varric!" he said. "But never do as he advises. And _that's_ the secret to my success."

This brief conversation had been veritably resounding in Lavellan's head ever since. Particularly after everything at Adamant. That Hawke was such a loud, weighty, _definite_ presence made his quick and horrible absence all the more jarring.

"Imagine hearing of someone for years," Lavellan had later told Dorian, holed up despairing and furious in his quarters, "and then you finally meet them and you fail them utterly."

Dorian was taken aback -- he sounded almost amused: "It wasn't _your_ failure!"

"Wasn't it? It feels that way. He's gone from the world now, because he met me."

"Amatus." 

"I'm the one who sent us into the Fade."

"Yes... To keep all our heads from getting smashed like little grapes. Hawke's included."

"I know, but I just... I can't help but think of all the things I should have done differently, it seems like we could have avoided it so easily. If we could have just been faster, if we'd been five seconds faster we might have made it. If I didn't spend so much time letting Justinia talk, or whoever -- whatever she was... or... If I could just have thought of a better way to get past that awful thing..."

"A nightmare demon the size of the Hinterlands? You're rather miraculous, I'll grant you, but there are limits, my dear."

"Or... well... I don't know. Alistair offered to stay behind in Hawke's place. To make up for what the Grey Wardens did. I could've encouraged him to do that, I might've saved Hawke that way -- would that've been a fairer thing to do?"

"Oh, so then you'd be wracked with guilt about Alistair instead. That would be better, would it?"

Lavellan was silent a moment. "No. I suppose not."

"Come here. Look at me," Dorian said.

Lavellan wasn't prepared to make eye contact, but he did slink over Dorian's way, coming to a stop in front of him.

Dorian put his hands on Lavellan's shoulders and said, "Now, I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of comfort for you. But you listen to me. Even if everyone around here insists that you are omnipotently controlling the fate of the world with your mortal little fingers, that's not actually entirely true. I believe some Inquisitor told me that once."

Lavellan practically rolled his eyes. "Yes..."

"There are limits to your power, Amatus, and you make incredible things happen in spite of them. But this? This was truly beyond your ability to control. You've got to believe that."

He had tried incredibly hard to believe it. He'd repeated these words from Dorian endlessly, for months -- bouncing them back and forth off the skeptical walls of his brain.

In that very moment, though, he'd remained silent. And Dorian had simply continued: "Come, now, let's get you a drink. And then you need to sleep. You're wanting for both, I can tell..."

Lavellan wasn't sure, then or now, what exactly he'd done to deserve Dorian. Yet another miracle beyond fathoming.

* * *

"I could really use you in my bed right now," Lavellan said, sounding downright mopey about it. He was curled up under the blankets in some cold, dark room halfway to the Free Marches, only the light of the crystal illuminating his face.

"Oh?" came Dorian's voice back at him. "And how would you 'use' me, exactly?"

"Well, I'd fuck you senseless, for one thing."

Dorian laughed. " _Senseless!_ No sense left at all? Not a single one of my many extensive wits? That would take quite the effort."

"After all this waiting? Trust me. You aren't going to know what hit you."

"Well, it's a bold claim, but I'm afraid it's not entirely accurate. We both know that if anyone is getting fucked senseless here, it's going to be you."

"Pfft... No. I sincerely doubt that."

"Doubt all you like. That doesn't mean I won't do it."

"Well, I'd like to see you try."

"Oh, I imagine you would! And I would dearly like to try. Very soon, I hope."

"I hope so too," Lavellan said. "What is the plan, exactly? When am I allowed in Minrathous?"

"Soon, I promise. I have a friend who has interests in a trading company -- I was thinking you might slip in with some merchants, if I can sort it out with them. It would be an easy way to avoid attracting attention. You, er, may have to pose as a slave, though..."

"Fine. Sure. Whatever it takes."

"Just like that? My, you must really be looking forward to me fucking you senseless."

"Wrong way around, love," Lavellan said. "How are you doing there, anyway? Don't let me do all the complaining. How goes the wrangling of the Magisterium?"

"Oh... well... let me put it this way. Imagine you're in a room with a gaggle of Seras."

"...A gaggle? Is that the accepted group term for Seras?"

"What else?" Dorian asked mildly. "Anyway, a gaggle of Seras. Did I mention the room is a hospital?"

"Dorian? I think this metaphor is getting away from you."

"No it isn't. Listen to me. You're in a hospital with a gaggle of Seras. You are all standing around a patient. A very delicate patient with a heart condition. Do you follow me so far?"

"All right..."

"You say, 'Look, everyone, we need to treat this patient.' And one of the Seras says, 'Let's do it with arrows!' And you say, 'No, no, surely, that is not how medicine works.' And the Sera says to you, 'Well, then, let's put it to a vote.' And because everyone around you is also a Sera, they all gleefully vote for the option with arrows." Dorian took a theatrical pause. "And that's politics in Tevinter."

"Wow," Lavellan said. "Evocative. I am so sorry."

"It can be trying, I'll admit. But no matter. I've gotten rather used to my brilliance not being appreciated... At any rate, I know what needs doing here, so I am simply trying to do it. No one wants to make it easy. But if it were easy, then they wouldn't need me here, now would they?"

"Well, you are awfully brilliant. If anyone can manage it, it's you... I'm sure they'll be sorry they ever stood in your way."

"Undoubtedly, the fools! Although it's not all obstinate people standing in my way. I'm also suddenly the target for a rather intriguing amount of bribery."

"Oh? As in, 'how about you trade all your principles for this nice fruit basket?'"

"Essentially. Fruit baskets. Money and influence. Depraved sex. All those sorts of things."

"Hang on," Lavellan said. "Run that last one by me again..."

Dorian laughed. "The 'depraved sex' caught your interest? Yes -- not that I was ever at a lack of people wanting to sleep with me, but suddenly they want it with purpose and focus. It's rather fascinating. Even more fascinating is the experience of having all these offers thrown at me and not feeling remotely tempted by them. It feels... powerful, almost. _Chaste_ power. A novel concept! I suppose I have you to thank for the discovery."

"Well, listen," Lavellan said. "If you should ever slip up and take one of these offers--"

"I don't intend to--"

" _If_. Listen to me. I'm saying if. Not that I want you to do it, but if anything should ever happen, just... promise me you'll sweep it right under the rug and never tell me about it. Ever."

"Duly noted," Dorian said. "I would ask the same of you, only I know your conscience. You'd be composing a blubbering confession before you'd even pulled out. You'd probably use the man's back as a surface to write it on."

Lavellan was speechless for a few moments. "That... I... would... be very upset with you right now, if that weren't astonishingly accurate."

"I know it is. That's why I said it."

"Honestly. Only you could make me miss you even when you're describing me in an inappropriate, slightly insulting tableau."

"Oh, please. If anything it's an inappropriate, slightly _flattering_ tableau."

"Nice," Lavellan said. "What a spin. You're a politician already."

"You take that back, you wretch..."

* * *

"Thank everything that you came with me, kid," Varric said, as they were at last approaching Kirkwall's Gallows from the open water. "I really needed someone to stand between me and Bran's look of disdain."

"Oh, that's just his face," Lavellan said, as Bran directed the look in question straight at him.

"Careful. He'll shiv you with a quill if you're nasty."

"I do not 'shiv,'" Bran said.

"Or a strongly worded memo, then. Depends on the day."

"Ugh."

It was hard for Lavellan to judge how Varric felt about returning home. On the one hand, he had been going on about Kirkwall nonstop throughout the journey here, telling story after nostalgic story of the people he knew there, and all the best sights the city had to offer (of which half, to be fair, had recently either burned down or been blown up). Yet as the harbour approached them, Lavellan barely heard Varric sigh and mutter, under his breath, "Well, here we go again."

As they made it over to the city docks and up into Lowtown, Lavellan found himself thinking of his first proper visit here just a few months before the Exalted Council, when he and Dorian had passed through -- Dorian was headed to visit Tevinter and Lavellan to see his clan in Wycome, but they had done the first leg of the journey together and made a stop here at Varric's insistence.

Lavellan would never forget that first visceral impression of Lowtown. Chaotic and humid. A blazingly monotone palette of dirt and canvas and rock. Rife with a mind-boggling assortment of unpleasant smells. Filled to the brim with people looking just as miserable as you might expect them to, having to live out every day of their lives in a place like this.

"Ah. Yes. Lovely," Dorian had said, gazing up the high walls into the one visible scrap of hazy air above them. "Nothing sets the mood quite like ashes drifting on the breeze."

The two had scanned the maze of stone steps and tight corridors that unravelled around them, feeling thoroughly disoriented. "Do we have any idea where this estate of Varric's is?" Dorian had asked.

"Uh," Lavellan had said, looking back and forth between the various twisting paths they could take. "It's in Hightown. Which I assume is... higher. That means we go... up the stairs?"

Dorian had just sighed. "Literal _and_ confusing. This city is unbearable."

As he trailed Varric's confident stride through the city, Lavellan found himself suppressing a smirk at the echoing memory of Dorian's commentary. (When they reached Hightown: "Oh, thank the Maker. Order! Symmetry!") He knew Dorian would be complaining bitterly about everything if he were here now, and for once Lavellan would've given almost anything to hear it.

* * *

Rather than force Lavellan to rattle around alone in some giant estate, Varric had permitted him to hole up in a guest room within the quarters of Viscount's Keep.

While Lavellan spent much time curled up inside, he would also venture out to explore Kirkwall -- though he kept this mostly to the early mornings: relatively quiet, too bright and early for all that much crime, the streets not yet at full bustle. Although he was less recognizable in the Free Marches than he was south of the Waking Sea, his plainly missing arm and his association with Varric were fairly obvious tells. So Lavellan would pull a hood up to obscure his face and use the whole of his assassin training to keep to the shadows, as unseen as possible. He would flit up and down the steps of the various passageways, finding and examining all the most interesting angles and arrangements of this dizzyingly stacked city. He would explore all morning until he registered his cover being spoiled -- usually with something like, "Andraste's left tit, is that him?" And then, game over, he would retreat back to the safety of the Keep.

During the afternoons he would most often watch Varric argue with Bran, trying occasionally to keep the peace, and once in a while offering to assist Varric with paperwork and other such mind-numbing duties. Much of the time, though, he would just sit there and observe.

"Stop trying to make this about politics," Varric would frequently say.

"You are the _viscount_ ," Bran would say. "This is _entirely_ about politics."

"This is Kirkwall, Bran. Who here gives a shit about that?"

This endless circling kept the days full, at the very least.

Lavellan wasn't quite sure what he was seeking here in Kirkwall. Some nebulous atonement, perhaps. He had no idea what that might look like, however, until he found the epicentre of his guilt sitting alone in the Hanged Man, looking up with a lack of enthusiasm as Varric exclaimed, "Hey, I've got someone for you to meet!"

 _Sorry, Fenris._

He could still hear those words in Hawke's voice. Lavellan was sure they were branded onto his face. It was all he could do to keep from screaming them at Fenris the moment the man's eyes landed on him.

"Kid, this is Fenris, the broodiest warrior in all of Kirkwall. Broody, this is--" Varric theatrically recited Lavellan's entire name, which made Lavellan wince with embarrassment.

"What, are you announcing me at a ball here?" Lavellan asked. Then he attempted to smile at Fenris, whose eyes had narrowed with something. Confusion? Recognition? Murderous hatred? "It's nice to meet you, Fenris. I've... heard a lot about you."

"And I you," Fenris said, with that same expression on his face.

_Oh, fuck, what does that mean._

"Well," Lavellan said. "I don't want to disturb you if--"

Varric said, "Come on, have a seat. I'm sure Broody would love the company."

Fenris had simply shrugged, as if he couldn't be bothered either way.

"You would not believe the kind of shit they get up to in the Winter Palace," Varric was saying as they took their seats. "Seriously, would you believe me if I told you they actually piss in gilded pots?"

Fenris said, "I would believe that. Yes."

"Then you would be right," Varric said, and he whapped Lavellan's arm. "You've got to tell him about the breakfasts."

Lavellan glanced at Varric, scrounged up a smile, and made his best attempt to do so.

There was some reminiscence here to the moment when Lavellan had first met Hawke. There was something similarly unreal about Fenris -- perhaps it was the bold stark whiteness of his hair and his artful lyrium markings, like he was a strikingly luminous painting.

But definitely the most unnerving thing about Fenris was how little he moved. He was like a vivid statue, with no more motion than the occasional blink. You got the sense if he did suddenly decide to break his stillness, it would be out of nowhere and lightning-fast and absolutely deadly.

With Varric shepherding along the conversation, Lavellan was absorbed in these observations, barely noticing what no-doubt-stupid words were spilling out from his mouth. Until Varric caught sight of someone apparently named 'Fuck-face' who he just _had_ to go say hello to.

Which left these two elves staring across a table at each other.

Lavellan braced himself, placing a series of words in Fenris's mouth for him: _I know you were the last one to see Hawke alive. It's all your fault. You let Hawke die. You killed Hawke. I will kill you myself. I will do that heart-squeezing thing I apparently know how to do. I will revenge myself upon your descendants for a thousand years._

"I apologize," Fenris said instead. "This may be a bit awkward. I admit, I asked Varric to introduce you to me."

"Oh... You did?" _Is this revenge? Is this murder-revenge._

"Varric tells me you have..." Fenris took a long moment, apparently pruning his words into appropriateness. "... _Relations_ with a Magister."

Compared to the howling accusations he had expected, this was so perfectly strange and awkward that Lavellan laughed out loud before he could stop himself. "Uh -- um -- sorry. Yes, I do."

Fenris was still gazing coolly at him, as though there were nothing funny about this or indeed anything else in the world. "Then do you intend to travel to Tevinter?"

"I plan to, yes. Though I don't quite know when."

"I would like to ask a favour of you," Fenris said. "I am aware you do not owe me anything, but... Varric tells me he trusts you as a friend. And the cause is good, if that helps."

"Sure, of course. I mean, I'd be happy to." _And I'm pretty sure I might owe you something._

"I have spent these last years rooting out slavers from the Imperium," Fenris said. "They have grown better at avoiding me, now. They often avoid Kirkwall in general. But in Tevinter, there are a great deal more people still in chains." Fenris levelled his gaze. "People like me. And people like you." 

Lavellan simply nodded to that.

"I cannot travel there myself," Fenris said. "These markings make me too recognizable. It makes my presence... unhelpful. But there are people, like me, who free themselves, and manage to free others. And a precious few make it down here to the Free Marches."

"And they need help?" Lavellan asked. "Help making the journey?"

"That will always be needed, yes. The best I can do here is help those who have managed to make it across the border. Help them find their feet, as I once needed help doing. But what I am hoping is that you might find someone who works on the other side. So that perhaps we might coordinate our efforts." Fenris sat back, then, still blankly studying Lavellan. "I make no demands. But if you should happen to discover any leads, I would be grateful."

"I understand," Lavellan said. "I'll do my best. Though, I'm not sure when I'll be able to go."

"Whenever you can," Fenris said. "I would appreciate anything you can manage."

Having gotten through the intended business, the both of them stared down at their drinks for a moment, uncomfortably quiet.

"So," Fenris said, in what was clearly a stiff attempt at something he'd been told he was meant to do in this sort of situation. "What brought you to Kirkwall?"

"Just Varric," Lavellan said. "I think..." He wasn't sure if this was appropriate to mention, but, fuck it -- it's not like he had anything better in mind to say. "I've been a bit worried about him. I'm not sure how well he's been doing lately. What with the viscount stress, and... everything else that's happened."

"By which you mean Hawke," Fenris said.

Hearing Fenris articulate the word was like a painful stab to the heart. The way his voice inhabited the syllable, one immediately got the sense of how many times and ways he had been moved to say it.

"I mean... yes," Lavellan said. "I think. He's just seemed different ever since."

"Of course he has. They were friends," Fenris said. "Or, more than that. It is... hard to explain." He was quiet for another moment, furrowing his brow. "Hawke told me once that meeting Varric was like being in a foreign country and at last finding another person who speaks your language."

"Oh?" Lavellan said.

"Not literally, of course," Fenris said. "I... believe he meant Varric's confidence. They were alike in that regard." 

"I think see what you mean."

Fenris nodded. "Loud. Confident. Completely obnoxious." He took a long swig of his drink.

"What's that?" Varric asked, returning to his seat. "What were you talking about there?"

"I was talking about you," Fenris said.

"I know that, elf. I was trying to shame you. You weren't supposed to admit it."

"Ah," Fenris said. "Once again it appears I have failed in my social obligations."

"You'll get there one day, I'm sure," Varric said.

"No, no, look," came a voice from behind them. "He's an elf with no arm. He's with the viscount. That's definitely him."

"Oh, please fuck off," Lavellan said under his breath.

"Hey! Hey," the unquestionably drunk patron said loudly, moving in on their table, staring close at Lavellan's face. "You're the one who speaks to Andraste, right? Who killed all the demons? Is it true she exploded your hand?"

"I've never heard anything from Andraste," Lavellan said. "You must be thinking of someone else."

"Then how come your hand's gone?"

"Mining accident. I don't want to talk about it."

"Now, come on, leave my friend here alone," Varric said. "He's just trying to drink away his memories of that horrible mineshaft in peace."

"It was so dark down there..."

"There, there," Varric said, patting Lavellan's arm. "We're all safe on the surface now, friend."

"You're so full of shit, Varric," the drunk man said. "Come on, let me talk to him. I got this really important question for Andraste about my--"

Fenris stood, then, taking two purposeful strides forward, at which the drunk man scrabbled backward in a panic. "Leave him be."

The man instantly did so. And whatever people had been watching this exchange, they quickly dissipated into the backdrop of the Hanged Man, as if they had never been there in the first place.

"Thank you," Lavellan said, with a hint of awe. "You're pretty good at that."

"So I have been told," Fenris said, sitting back down.

"That's nothing," Varric said. "Just wait until you see him fist someone."

Fenris glared at Varric. "In the chest, he means."

"...Of course," Lavellan said. "I'm sure I have no idea what else he could possibly have meant."

Fenris glared at him too, for a moment, then simply said, "Good."

* * *

"So... about visiting you," Lavellan said, curled up once again in a nest of blankets with his crystal on the pillow. "What's the progress there?"

"Ah, right," Dorian said. "I'm sorry, love, but I think we'll have to hold off at least a few more weeks. I just have some things left to take care of before you can come."

"...Why? Like what?"

"Just a few more weeks," Dorian said. "As soon as everything's sorted I'll let you know, I promise."

"Dorian. What is there to sort? What is the problem?"

"It's only business! But I'd prefer to deal with it before you arrive, so you can have my undivided attention while you're here."

"What 'business' is this, though? Why won't you just tell me?"

"Because it's incredibly boring," Dorian said. "It's boring political nonsense that would waste precious minutes of your life. Minutes you could spend doing something far more interesting, like telling me how much you adore me in filthy detail."

"Dorian... You aren't lying to me right now, are you?"

"Now, why would I ever lie to you?" Dorian asked. "I absolutely want to hear how much you adore me. The filthier the details, the better."

Lavellan half-chuckled, half-groaned with impatience, kneading his face with his one hand. "Oh... that's true, I was going to tell you. Last night I had this incredible dream that was entirely about your dick."

"...Did you! Fascinating. So none of the rest of me made an appearance?"

"Not much of one," Lavellan said. "The dream was rather... focused. But, er, anyway -- not the point. Why can't you just--"

"So what happened, exactly?"

"I'm sorry?"

"In your dream. What happened?"

"I -- well -- I'm sure you can imagine."

"I could," Dorian said, slowly, deliberately. "But I would much prefer to hear you say it."

Lavellan paused for a moment.

And it was there they stumbled upon the revelation that these sending crystals might also be an aid to their sex life.

This kind of auditory intimacy was a bit of an adjustment. Of course, it wasn't like they'd never said things like this aloud to each other before, but, naturally, it would tend to be done in close contact, with each other's touches there to distract them from how ridiculous it all sounded aloud. But after weeks and weeks of no Dorian, having any form of sexual contact at all was an indescribable relief. Hang the awkwardness or embarrassment -- at this point, Lavellan would take it. He would take pretty much anything.

That night Lavellan had slept incredibly soundly, for once, only to wake up the next morning -- face-down, tangled in the sheets, feeling rather unclean -- and instantly realize that Dorian had deftly distracted him from the question.

"Why, you rotten sexy bastard," Lavellan muttered into his pillow.

* * *

"How's Sparkler doing up there?" Varric asked Lavellan over dinner in the giant, cold-air-filled rectangle of despair that was the dining room in Viscount's Keep.

"Enh," Lavellan said. 

"Well, that's not a great sound. Something happen?"

"No... no. Nothing. I'm just frustrated by the situation. You know how it is." Lavellan jammed his spoon into his bowl of stew, shoving the chunks of mystery meat around. "I wish I could drag him back here. Or just change things, somehow. Something. Anything at all. I'm just incredibly tired of things being the way they are."

He lifted his spoon then, studying the mystery meat upon it. They had decided to hole up in private for the evening, and yet Varric had insisted on sending a runner to the Hanged Man for its classic stew. The viscount could do such things, Lavellan supposed.

"Don't forget that staying with him is your choice," Varric said. "You still think it's worth it?"

Lavellan frowned at him. "You, of all people, are saying a bit of distance isn't worth bearing?"

"I'm not saying anything at all," Varric said. "I'm just asking what you think."

"Of course it's worth it. Dorian's worth anything. That doesn't mean I can't sit here wishing it were different."

"Well, you don't exactly have to accept it like this," Varric said. "You have options. You could always force him to choose. Tell him you'll leave him right now unless he starts packing for the Free Marches. I'm pretty sure you could convince him, if you really wanted to."

"Well, sure, I _could_ , but I'm not going to do that."

"And why is that?"

"Because that would be selfish? Because I understand there are more important things at stake than my immediate happiness? Because I want him to be happy with the life he's leading, even if that makes things difficult for me? Because he's worth that much? And because I'm not a huge asshole, maybe?"

Varric smiled at him. "And there you have it, kid."

"Oh... fuck off, Varric."

"I'll take that as a 'thank you for the unsolicited advice, my dear friend.'"

"Ugh," Lavellan said. "If you insist."

And then it suddenly occurred to Lavellan, all at once in that moment, that Varric probably thought he was the one keeping a watchful eye on a lonely friend, and not the other way around.

Lavellan spontaneously laughed aloud at the thought. Of course, Varric was right. Lavellan _was_ unmoored in hopeless loneliness here. And so was Varric. And here they were, distracting themselves from how little they could cope with their own problems by pretending they were absolutely essential in helping the other one with theirs.

"Something funny there?" Varric asked.

"Oh, Varric," Lavellan said. "We're so pathetic!"

He wondered if Varric would question that, but the man just smirked at him again. "Tell me something I don't know."

Lavellan plonked his chin on the table. "Ugh. What a stupid dreary state of affairs we've fashioned for ourselves here."

"Dwelling on it doesn't help anything, kid."

"And telling yourself that makes it better, does it?"

Varric laughed. "You know damn well that it doesn't. Would I be sitting here if it did?"

"True enough," Lavellan said. "Tell me, then, since we're sharing. What are you dwelling on right now?"

Varric made that face he usually tried not to make. The one that was like slamming a cupboard door shut. It was the face he made when anyone ventured to ask him about Bianca. The 'leave it be' face.

Mooning over a distant, unreachable partner? Something as simple and relatable to Lavellan's problems as that?

Eventually, Varric chuckled. "You're killing me here, kid," he said, and he took a long drink.

Varric and Lavellan let the silence sit for a good minute before Varric spoke again: "I just keep wishing that Hawke hadn't listened to me that time."

Lavellan raised his head from the table.

"But he did," Varric said. "Well. What are you going to do."

"Varric, no," Lavellan said, and in an instant he had become desperate to confess this. "Not you, no, it was my fault. It was my fault, not yours."

"No, it wasn't. You were just trying to do your job. I'm the one who called Hawke into the situation. No one could expect him to do any less than Hawke everything up at that point."

"But I could've stopped him."

"You really can't stop Hawke, kid," Varric said. "Or... you couldn't. I guess."

The two of them stared despondently at each other for a while, mulling all this through. "Fenedhis, Varric," Lavellan said at last. "Are you telling me we're sitting here tormenting ourselves over all the exact same things?"

"Why exactly do you think I wanted you along here? Misery loves company. Eerily matching company? So much the better." He pushed back his chair. "Now, if you'll excuse me for one second. I have a vintage in the cellar that will take this night from 'depressing wallowing' straight to 'high-class wallowing.'"

"Oh. Sounds lovely," Lavellan said. "It's good to be the viscount, huh?"

"Well, it's something, all right..."

* * *

The next time Lavellan encountered Fenris, striding through a hallway in Viscount's Keep, they had both willingly halted for a chat. "I hope to be in Tevinter in a few weeks," Lavellan told him. "Dorian has a few things to arrange first, apparently... I'll see what I can find for you then."

"'Dorian'?" Fenris said. The quotation marks were audible. "This is your... Magister... friend?"

"That's him, yes."

"I see." 

Fenris fixed Lavellan with a still, silent stare that lasted for a small eternity. Finally, he said, "May I ask you a personal question?"

 _Well, this should be something._ "Go on..."

"You must know what they do to people like us in Tevinter," Fenris said. "You may be Dalish, but you have had contact enough with Tevinter mages and slavers, if Varric's endless tales about the Inquisition are to be believed..."

"Exaggerated tales, no doubt, but yes. I, uh -- I have an idea."

"That is what your man was brought up on."

Lavellan wasn't sure if this comment made him horribly sad or unspeakably angry. Possibly a mix of both. What hellish emotion was this? "Dorian isn't like that."

"It does not matter what he is _like_."

Lavellan almost laughed. "Doesn't it?"

"No. I understand, he is friends with Varric, and he evidently thinks enough of elves to be in love with one. I can imagine he would not be the worst of what Tevinter has to offer. But that is not what I meant. The sort of cruelty I suffered... Tevinter is steeped in it. You practically breathe it from the air. Your man has been absorbing it his entire life, intentionally or not. It is part of him."

"Look, none of us chooses where to be born--"

"I am not saying it is his fault. But it is still a fact of his existence."

"Listen," Lavellan said, feeling increasingly hot in the neck region, a strange itch crawling up from his left elbow. He was torn between endless guilt and sympathy for the very concept of Fenris and the all-out, knee-jerk defensiveness against anyone daring to say anything about Dorian, ever. "Sure, Dorian might have been born into a lot of objectionable things, but all he's ever done with his life is question what he's been taught. He gave up everything he had to help the Inquisition, and we would never have succeeded without him. And right now he's putting himself at risk again, trying to make Tevinter better than it is. If anyone is going to improve things, it's him. We _need_ people like him."

"An idealist, then. If you insist," Fenris said. And then he sighed. "I apologize. You must think me very rude."

"No, no," Lavellan said, though part of him was still twitching. "It's fine, I understand, I see the point you're making. But Dorian is a good person, to the core. None of that has ever come between us."

"I can understand the concept of a good person existing in Tevinter," Fenris said. "But Varric has told me how you are... struggling with this man's absence..."

Lavellan's shoulders sagged. "Oh. Has he? How very thoughtful of him."

The look on Fenris's face was now something resembling sympathy. "You will find that Varric cannot resist sharing any narrative he considers compelling."

"So, 'one-armed Dalish elf pines after Tevinter Magister' meets the drama requirement for him, does it?"

Fenris just barely smirked. "I suppose so. I do not mean to be rude. Your situation simply seems familiar to me, and so I am trying to understand you. Why allow yourself to be hurt by this man? Does he truly deserve that?"

"Yes," Lavellan said, unreservedly. "All day. That and more."

"How does that come about?" Fenris asked -- he almost sounded like he was musing on the question by himself. "How does a Dalish elf meet a man from Tevinter, a man raised on the enslavement of his people, and find a way through to loving him? I suppose that's what I don't understand."

Lavellan hesitated for a good while. "That's... When we met, I..." And then he remembered his first conversation with Fenris, with its simple explanation: "We just speak the same language."

Fenris was staring at him, gaze unbroken, as usual. "And what language is that?"

"We just... laugh," Lavellan said. "Or we try to. And we're always afraid. And that makes us laugh more." He rubbed his hand uneasily through his hair. "Does that make any sense to you at all?"

"No," Fenris said.

There was a slightly awkward pause. 

Then Fenris went on, "But if it makes sense to you, then I suppose that is enough."

* * *

Lavellan had been hiding out in Kirkwall for a good few weeks, waiting for Dorian to get his vague business in order, when a letter came to the Keep for him. It was in a familiarly crumpled envelope, with some bees drawn on the back. He opened it up and read:

> DEAR EX-INQUISITOR UN-HERALD OF NOT-ANDRASTE
> 
> JENNIES IN KIRKWALL IF YOU KNOW WHERE TO LOOK
> 
> COULD USE A HAND (1) FROM SOMEONE LIKE YOU
> 
> SAY SO IF YOU'RE GAME
> 
> HERE'S SOME BITS SINCE YOU'RE MISSING DORIAN'S
> 
> [The disembodied bits that followed were rendered with truly superb attention to detail.]
> 
> LOVE SERA
> 
> P.S.: HUG VARRIC & TELL HIM NOT TO BE AN ARSE
> 
> OTHER P.S.: I MISS YOUR DUMB STUPID FACES 
> 
> [This last part was surrounded by a vicious swarm of platonic hearts.]

Lavellan stared at this letter for a good while. 

Helping Jennies. That sounded an awful lot like purpose. Direction. Was he ready to have direction and purpose back in his life?

Part of him firmly insisted 'yes.' But a greater part of him was fairly sure his distressed and exhausted self, with its total of one (1) hand, was of no good use to anyone now, Jenny or otherwise. 

Lavellan carefully folded up the letter. He wasn't possibly equipped to make a decision about this now, when every day of his current existence still left him reeling non-stop. He would just have to tell Sera he'd think about it.

When Varric came upon Lavellan sitting in the Keep's study that evening, he was bent over a paper, brow furrowed with concentration. Varric said, "Hey, did you want any--"

And then he caught sight of what Lavellan was working on: a giant, majestic, artfully stippled drawing of a pair of breasts.

"Um," Varric said. "Kid? Anything you want to share with me here?"

"I'm writing a letter to Sera," Lavellan said.

" _Oh_ ," Varric said, with audible relief. "Well. As long as there's a logical explanation."


	4. Translating elven in Minrathous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some cuddling, a corpse... You know, romantic stuff.
> 
> (a.k.a. "in which I attempt to be skirtingly vague about Tevinter business because who knows how DA4 will ruin all of this")

Dorian had been taking time to stare at the sending crystal every morning and evening, as if the plain fact that Lavellan's was unresponsive needed to be carefully studied.

"It'll be safer if I keep it silenced the next few days," Lavellan had said. Dorian had readily agreed at the time, but as he came on the sixth straight morning of silence, this lack of word was driving him up the wall. The longer it all took, the more questions started nagging about what many things might possibly have gone wrong.

 _Wonderful. I'm getting to be as paranoid as he is,_ Dorian thought. _I should've known he'd infect me with his incessant worrying eventually._

But on top of the general worry, without having a safe, reliable ear in which to dump all of his complaints on a nightly basis, Dorian found himself chafing more than usual at the daily process of dealing with his fellows in the Magisterium.

It wasn't so much how horrible they were -- although plenty of them showed an impressive commitment to being horrible. It was more the way one had to exist in the Magisterium that weighed on him. Complete, unflinching self-control was paramount. He had to keep his eye on everyone, to predict their judgments and wield them defensively -- and even though Dorian had found allies, some days this bloc of reasonable people felt so outnumbered that Dorian rather had the impression of being crowded on a tiny life raft with a few other hapless fools, set adrift on a completely irrational sea.

In general, Dorian had never been fond of holding his tongue, but in this line of work discretion was a matter of survival. It was tiring, forging ahead through these conditions, day after day. Particularly when there was no one to unload everything on at the end of things.

Which is why it was such a relief to walk into his study on the sixth evening and unexpectedly come upon a small intruder exhibiting horrific posture in an armchair.

"These drapes are _excessive_ ," Lavellan said.

Dorian stopped in his tracks, then found himself laughing aloud -- the very idea of Lavellan being in Minrathous still felt absurd, but there he was, very much present, asserting his existence on Dorian's furniture. "How did _you_ get in here?"

"Would you believe your staff let me in?" Lavellan said, hopping to his feet. "Questionable security if you ask me--"

He barely got the words out before Dorian swept him up into a deep, relieved kiss, an aggressive rebuke of all the anxiety leading up to this moment. The embrace was warm and familiar, the two grasping and melting into it like it had been no time at all, or possibly like it had been a hundred years -- Dorian's brain, having better things to concentrate on, failed to decide which one was more accurate.

When Dorian pulled away, Lavellan was gazing rather adoringly back at him, a stupid grin plastered across his face. "Hello! Fuck, you really are that handsome. I almost forgot."

"You _forgot?_ How could you?"

"I said 'almost.' Give me a break, it's been a while."

"I am acutely aware of how long it's been, believe me," Dorian said. "Are you all right? Any trouble at the border? Do you have anything vitally important to tell me? If so, please tell me right now, because I'm about to require your mouth for some other things..."

"I'm fine," Lavellan said. "And I missed you terribly. So let's get on to those other things, shall we?"

"I'm glad you--" Dorian looked down with surprise, then, and smacked Lavellan's left forearm -- it issued a metallic clang. "Is this the new appendage? It looks good!"

"This is it, indeed," Lavellan said. "It's amazingly heavy, but at least it looks convincing from the outside. You know, provided it's covered by a sleeve. And a glove. And assuming I don't have to move it around too much, or try to actually use it for anything functional. Otherwise... so natural."

"You are such a critic," Dorian said. "I think you look lovely. Very... limbed."

"I appreciate that," Lavellan said. "Now, just wait until you see it come off."

"So... removing limbs has officially become a part of our sex life," Dorian said. "You certainly know how to keep things interesting."

Lavellan laughed, taking Dorian's cheek in his right hand, resting the cold weight of his left on Dorian's hip. "Anything to hold your attention," he said. "Now where were we?"

* * *

There had been an evening in Skyhold, back during the middling days of the Inquisition, when Lavellan and Dorian -- relaxed and naked, cuddled up in bed -- had turned to talking about the concept of fitting in: of growing up and discovering in themselves an inclination that wasn't considered 'normal.'

"No matter what I was told, no matter how much of a scandal or a disappointment I made of myself, I always refused to believe it was actually 'wrong,'" Dorian said. "It was all so hypocritical. It was only ever 'wrong' in arbitrary context. The same people who condemned it in public were happy to do it in private! Even worse, some would condemn you personally in front of others, then solicit your affections behind closed doors. All that rot was never going to convince me. So, yes, I was determined to be honest about that part of myself, no matter how much backlash it caused. Just drag it all screaming out into the open, so to speak. If only to challenge the people who wouldn't."

"That's admirable," Lavellan said. "You're very brave, Dorian."

"That's one way to look at it. Of course, I've also been called 'desperate for negative attention'..."

Lavellan snorted. "You? Never."

"Is that sarcasm I hear?"

"Well, you did waltz into a country that hates you, talk your way into the fanatical army attempting a holy war against your countrymen, and start brazenly fucking their heretical Dalish leader..."

"When you put it that way, it sounds..." Dorian sighed with satisfaction, shutting his eyes. "What a life! I'm absolutely incredible."

"No arguments from me."

"What about you, then?" Dorian asked. "Was it hard for you? What do the Dalish have to say about this?"

"They wouldn't say it was wrong, exactly," Lavellan said. "It would be fine, by itself, if I wanted to sleep with a man. Two problems with that, though. First of all, I was the only man in my clan with those, uh, particular interests..."

"Well, that certainly puts a damper on your prospects."

"I'll say it does... The other problem, of course, is that Dalish children are in short supply, so we are rather duty-bound to make more of them."

"Ah, yes," Dorian said. "Carrying on the line. I'm familiar with that obligation."

"It's nowhere near the burden that was on you, I don't think," Lavellan said. "They wouldn't have cared who she was, so long as she was an elf. But... still. I found the idea... unpleasant. That was becoming a problem."

"They thought you should just lie back and take it, then?"

"Essentially. Place my people above myself and all that." Lavellan shuddered a bit. "Ugh, if you'd like to picture this unbearably awkward conversation... My Keeper once actually told me that I should forget about enjoying it or not and just perform the act as a sacred ritual in praise of Sylaise."

"Oh, is that all! Which persuaded you instantly, no doubt..."

"Ha. No. What has Sylaise ever done for me? Other than grant me with an obsessive love of the wrong sort of genitalia."

"So she's the one who did that? Do thank her for me, would you?"

"Well, I don't know, really. She's our goddess of the domestic arts -- does that cover sexual interests? Hard to say." He paused. "One of my clan-mates suggested that it might be a trick by Fen'Harel. You know, the Dread Wolf, trying to confuse me. Leading me astray from our purpose, or what have you." 

"Is that something Fen'Harel does? Sow confusing sexual thoughts in impressionable young people?"

"If he ever existed? Sure, maybe. What do I know?"

Dorian was quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful, absently playing around with some of Lavellan's curls. (Whenever he did this, Lavellan got the sense that Dorian was attempting to organize his hair into tidiness. A futile task if there ever was one.)

Then Dorian said, "I notice you said 'wrong' genitalia, just now. If I may ask... how does all that sit with you these days? Do you still find yourself believing that it's wrong?"

"Honestly... all I can say is this, Dorian: if living a life that involves seeing _you_ naked is 'wrong,' then... well... fuck it. Might as well burn the whole thing to the ground."

"Ah," Dorian said. "Clarity! And that's why I'm here."

"It's not the only thing you're here for, I hope," Lavellan said, nosing his way in for another kiss.

(A good deal of enthusiasm and exertion later, as they lay entangled in the dark, Lavellan seemed to have gone silent. Dorian kissed Lavellan's cheek and asked, "Something the matter?"

Lavellan said, "I... cannot... _believe_... you just praised Sylaise during sex."

Dorian laughed loudly, full up with self-satisfaction. "Well, what? I'm simply trying to accommodate your culture."

"You do realize what you just did was more blasphemous than anything?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Ser Heretical Non-Believer. Perhaps I'd gathered the impression that you got off on blasphemy."

Lavellan tried to frown at him, although one corner of his mouth wouldn't behave. "No comment."

Dorian laughed again, pulling Lavellan in tight. "Oh, I got _all_ the comment I needed back there, trust me...")

* * *

Dorian didn't have much cause these days to think about Livia Herathinos, but on this particular morning he found her drifting into his thoughts.

How long would they have been married now if his parents had had their way? He could hardly imagine what that would be like. A dream for his family, he supposed. Livia really had been the epitome of everything they'd hoped for: a talented mage, not to mention a charming, high-class woman, full of learned grace and appropriate conduct...

This all came to Dorian now as he stood in the doorway leading from his bedroom to his study, observing his dishevelled, magic-illiterate, elven man from the backwoods, with manners to match -- currently he was barely dressed, barefoot, squatting on top of the desk like an animal, pawing through one of Dorian's books. 

Truly, Lavellan was the complete reverse of what Dorian had been intended to find. Perhaps that had something to do with why Dorian liked him so much. 

But there was more to it than that: not just the contrast, but the sheer unlikeliness. Despite being the embodiment of 'undesirable attributes' in the eyes of any decent person from Tevinter, Lavellan was the epitome of lofty accomplishment. He had carelessly accepted the odds against him and done it all anyway. And even so, he didn't boast and jockey to add to his incredible levels of success -- no, in all honesty, Dorian knew that Lavellan would have preferred to hide from his success in a cupboard. What was there not to love in a defiant repudiation like that?

The effect was magnified by having this implausible being right here, in Dorian's study in Minrathous, of all places, flipping through a book, like he perfectly belonged there. Dorian approached Lavellan from behind, then, finding the warm, bare meeting place between his neck and his shoulder and giving it a kiss.

Lavellan flinched with surprise, then sandwiched Dorian's face between his palm and his cheek. "What do _you_ want?"

"I'm just wondering why you would be anywhere other than my bed... and, more importantly, what exactly it is that you're doing to my desk."

"Oh, you know. Just ruining your studies."

"Typical." Dorian wrapped his arms around Lavellan, then, nuzzling his cheek. "I like seeing you in here. You rather brighten up the place."

It had been a long time since there had been easy, comfortable hugs like this first thing in the morning. Lavellan sighed with pure satisfaction, then let out, almost unconsciously, "Ar lath ma."

"I know you do," Dorian said, and then he laughed. "Say! Do you remember how I had to ask Solas to translate that for me?"

"Yes, yes--" 

"--Because you refused to admit what it meant, you cagey twit." 

"Hey," Lavellan said. "Come on. Who else but me could deliver the declaration of my affections via Dread Wolf?" 

"Oh, yes. Very impressive. It's no wonder I stuck around." 

"Mm," Lavellan said, turning himself about so they faced each other. "Now shut up and kiss me again."

"Also, because you say things like that. So very romantic."

"I said shut up."

"Exactly."

Lavellan accomplished the shutting up by kissing Dorian himself. Dorian obliged him in this for a moment, then took Lavellan by the waist and pulled him to his feet. "Now, off my desk. I can think of many better places for your ass to be than all over my notes..."

Rather than move any further, Lavellan flopped forward onto Dorian in a rather boneless hug, forcing Dorian to support the entirety of his body weight. He asked, "Aren't you an important Magister now? Do you not have any important Magister-ing to be doing today?"

"Trying to get rid of me, are you?"

"Oh, no, I'm definitely not letting go of you either way," Lavellan said. "I was just curious."

"I could be Magister-ing, but it's not important. Nothing earthshakingly vital on the agenda." As he said this, Dorian managed to manoeuvre them both backwards to the nearest armchair, so Lavellan could flop in his lap rather than hang off him like an irritating parasite. "Besides... every Magister skips some part of their duties for personal reasons. It's a time-honoured tradition. Particularly when those reasons are naked ones."

"So you're shirking your duties just for me? How sweet."

"Really, did you expect any less? Besides -- you and I have things to do. Things other than each other, I mean."

"Do we? I had no idea..."

"Just a few things, then right back to nakedness, I promise," Dorian said with a wink. "First, though, I wanted to introduce you to someone. Did you meet Endriel yesterday? He's one of the servants here. Nervous chap? Ferelden accent? Scars on his arms?"

"I don't think so. Elf?"

"Dalish, even. I told him I had a Dalish friend visiting and he was properly excited. I hope you won't mind saying hello."

"No, glad to. He's from Ferelden? Why is he here?"

"Not by his choice, as you might guess," Dorian said. "I happened to meet Endriel's former master a few months ago when he decided to force a hostile confrontation over some trivial difference of political opinion. Rather unpleasant fellow -- poor hygiene. Penchant for blood magic. Long story short, I set him on fire."

"Right. As you do..."

"Right. And when all that bother was done with, poor Endriel was left cowering in the corner. Since I'd effectively taken away his employment and shelter, I offered him a paying job here. I didn't realize it at the time, but even though he accepted my offer, I don't think he believed I was serious until I handed him his first payment. He actually cried over it, the poor thing."

"Oh, Dorian, that is horrible," Lavellan said. "I mean, I'm glad you found him, but..."

"I know," Dorian said. "To be honest, I'm a little concerned about him. I'm not sure what horrors he's been through, but he's still so unnecessarily grateful toward me that I can't get him to admit anything's wrong. I wondered if talking to you might make him more comfortable."

"Then hopefully he doesn't know who I am?"

"Er," Dorian said. "I'm not sure... but I think he might. What other Dalish elf would be paying me a secret personal visit?"

"Oh. Great."

"It'll be fine, love. Mostly I think he's just eager to speak to someone a little more like himself, for a change." He swatted Lavellan's arm. "Then! Afterwards perhaps you'll let me show you around? I daresay this is the first time you've ever been in a real city in your life..."

"Hang on. After everything you said about the dangers of showing my face here, you want to take me for a walk? I rather expected you to lock me in your bedroom."

"Hmmm... tempting. Is that an option?"

"Well, it's your house..."

"Then perhaps I -- no. Wait. Never mind, it won't work. You'd just pick the locks." Dorian tipped his head, then, until he was looking Lavellan in the eye. "Do you not feel comfortable leaving the house?"

"Of course _I_ feel comfortable. I'd love to. I'm just a bit surprised that you'd suggest it."

"Well, one quick jaunt through some of our more interesting districts shouldn't be particularly noticeable. And... you can manage that subtle, shadowy assassin business of yours while we go for a stroll, can't you?"

"Sure I can. And how about you?"

"What? You think I can't be subtle?"

"You want me to dignify that with a response?"

Dorian laughed. "The nerve of you. Let's just say I'm thoughtfully drawing attention away from you and leave it at that..."

* * *

They found Endriel in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot like his life depended on it.

"Endriel!" Dorian said cheerfully, and the man jumped about three feet in the air, then wheeled around. "Oh -- sorry about that. Didn't mean to startle you..."

"Sorry," Endriel said as well, for no good reason. He was a tall, slight elf with darting eyes and a maze of scars slashing all the way up his arms, some fresher than others. When he noticed Lavellan standing there, his eyes widened.

"Hang on, aren't you supposed to have today off?" Dorian asked. "Why aren't you relaxing? Putting your feet up?"

"I don't mind, Lord Pavus, really," Endriel said, gazing at his feet.

"He literally cannot stop being helpful," Dorian told Lavellan. "Hopeless! Anyway..."

Dorian proceeded to introduce Lavellan by his first name only, perhaps hoping it was less recognizable than his surname, but even just this made Endriel's eyes go wider. "And this is Endriel, who I've told you about..."

Lavellan shot Endriel a big, comforting smile, as sympathetic as he could manage. "Aneth ara, Endriel." 

"Andaran atish'an," Endriel said, flushing. "Ir mirthadra." 

Lavellan accidentally snorted. "There's no reason to feel honoured by me, I swear... It's a pleasure to meet you."

"A-are you actually the...?"

"Yes," Lavellan said, "but, please, I'd appreciate if you pretended I wasn't!"

"Remember, he's 'not really here,' as it were," Dorian said. "Not to mention he's complained endlessly about the title since the day they gave it to him..."

"Yes, thank you very much for your input, Dorian."

"I apologize," Endriel said, and Lavellan waved a dismissive hand. "Um... I... wanted to thank you for teaching Lord Pavus to speak elven. I appreciate that very much."

"Oh, so you speak elven now, do you?" Lavellan asked Dorian.

Dorian laughed. "Not any better than when you last saw me! Endriel is being very generous... I know when to say 'ma serannas' and that's about the whole of it."

"B-but it's always very nice to hear you say it, Lord Pavus," Endriel said, flushing again.

"Come now, that's not all I taught you, is it?" Lavellan said.

"I'm not about to go around repeating the other things you taught me, you filthy person," Dorian said, which made Lavellan laugh aloud. 

Endriel didn't appear to know how to react to this. If he was from one of those reclusive Ferelden clans, Lavellan thought, then Endriel likely wouldn't have any context at all for a human-elf interaction that was as loose as this.

"Would you mind if I came to find you later, Endriel?" Lavellan asked. "Perhaps we can speak more in private."

"Always trying to get rid of me. Typical..."

"Elf things, Dorian. You wouldn't understand."

Endriel looked no less mystified, but he just said, "I would appreciate that very much, Ser."

* * *

When Lavellan had first been led into Minrathous the night before, it had all been a blur -- the sun had just set, and Lavellan had been trying to keep his head down, while simultaneously fixating on the idea of actually, physically seeing Dorian again -- while he'd processed snips of bizarre foreign architecture and endless confusing streets, the unbelievable scale of everything had stretched massively out of his field of awareness.

Now they were out here, in the middle of the day, and while Lavellan had thrown his usual protective hood on to keep his face from being overly exposed, with Dorian's leisurely guidance he was free to stare in every direction. And in every direction, there were things to stare at. Half the buildings they encountered were these incredibly vast stone marvels, towering just unimaginably high, like they were laughing uproariously at the very idea of southern architecture. They were marvellously ornate and outright crumbling at the same time -- many of them held together with almost arrogant displays of magical force.

"Tevinter in a nutshell," Dorian said. "Home to some of the most wondrous things in the world, which we desperately try to pretend aren't damaged beyond fucking repair."

Cynical assessments aside, Dorian found himself delighted by Lavellan's obvious amazement. The elf would frequently halt in place, staring straight upwards for ages, as if trying to count all the tiny cracks in each stone. And then Dorian would start to recite helpful facts about whatever Lavellan was staring at and Lavellan would turn to staring at him as if he were the world's foremost genius on everything.

"And it's always this much warmer here?" Lavellan asked him eventually. "This is normal? You don't even have winter?" 

"This _is_ winter. If it were summer, you'd have died of heat exhaustion three blocks ago."

"Huh," Lavellan said -- the pleasantly sunny day they found themselves in would already have been an uncommonly balmy one at Skyhold. "Well. No wonder you complained so much."

"Sympathy, at last. I've waited so long."

After pointing out some of the key marvels in the city centre, Dorian led Lavellan to an area less often frequented by nobles: one of the lesser-known street market districts. Rather than unfolding in the usual open-air stalls, this one took shape in a series of tightly winding streets with shops hewn directly into the surrounding stone, like little burrows, many of their wares on display along the walls outside.

"They say you can find absolutely anything here, at some cost," Dorian said. "What was the old adage? Something like: beautiful, good quality, great price -- if you can settle for two out of three, it's yours..."

"I couldn't even tell you what half these things are," Lavellan said, gesturing at a stand of hanging... bejeweled... ribbon-y... something.

"That? Oh, I used to have one of those... It's a children's toy. All you need to know is a basic spell that creates light and you can play with it for hours -- depending on how it spins, you can reflect all sorts of shapes and colours on the wall..."

"A toy for _mage_ children," Lavellan said. "Of course that would exist here. Of course you had one. That's fascinating!"

"We do like to foster magical talent," Dorian said with a smile. "Though you can imagine the passive-aggressive possibilities of giving this as a present to a new parent."

"What, like: 'You'd better hope your child learns to use this'?"

"That, or: 'Behold, a simple thing that your useless child will never enjoy.'"

"Oh... ouch."

"I know," Dorian said, and then he raised his arm. "Here, I'll show you--"

And then Dorian fell silent. He turned his palm over, staring at it with a frown. Then he quickly looked up and about himself.

"You all right?" Lavellan asked.

Dorian grabbed Lavellan by the sleeve. "Right, uh, come this way, please..."

"What--?" Lavellan let himself be dragged along through the nearest doorway, after which Dorian pulled the door shut behind them. 

They found themselves in a crammed, windowless little hole of a shop -- a stiflingly warm space barely tall enough for the two of them to stand upright in. With the door being closed, it was lit up only by thin lamplight, which flickered across the reams and reams of cheaply made carpets that hung along the walls.

"I beg your pardon, would you leave that open?" the shop owner said, from her perch behind a little table in the corner. "I can barely breathe in here as it is."

Dorian pawed through his robes, then pulled out a fistful of coins and dropped them on the table. "Good afternoon! This much to stand outside your door for a few minutes while my companion and I have a quick word in private. What do you say?"

The shop owner stared at him -- then she slid the coins into her palm, one by one, counting them. She looked up to stare at him one more time, and then stood and wordlessly sidled out the door, shutting it once again behind her. 

"What's the matter with you?" Lavellan asked.

Dorian was eyeing the closed door -- then he turned about and attempted a wholly unconvincing smile. "Right. What are the chances I can convince you to wait here for a while?" 

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, I just..." Dorian then visibly deflated, swearing under his breath. "Well... all right... it seems there's a chance we're being followed. I would like to just take care of it, if you'd let me."

"What do you mean, followed? By who?"

"Just... just... possibly an assassin."

"Wait, what? Are you sure?"

"Not entirely, but I'd bet on it," Dorian said. "Kaffas, I'm sorry, this is entirely my fault... Why was I arrogant enough to think we didn't need a guard! I thought that would just attract unnecessary attention to you, but -- honestly, I was assured this person was dead already, I didn't think we'd--" 

"What do you mean? Is this someone you know?" 

"Well, not 'know,' exactly, more of a general... awareness of... Look, it's really nothing. Would you please just wait here and let me handle it?"

"If it were nothing, you wouldn't be acting like this," Lavellan said. "How long has this been going on, Dorian? Don't tell me this has something to do with you putting my visit off?" 

"...Possibly," Dorian said. "Probably. All right -- entirely. Look, I really thought it was over and done with, I didn't realize they were still--"

Lavellan grabbed Dorian by the collar, yanking him down to eye level, positively bristling. "Vhenan?"

(Dorian stiffened -- incongruously, Lavellan only seemed to break out the elven pet names when he was furious -- perhaps in an attempt to remind himself of the fact that he did indeed love Dorian very much and shouldn't just stab him the chest.)

"Yes?" Dorian asked.

"Don't. Fucking. Lie to me."

"Oh, come now, I didn't _lie_ to you. It was more of an omission than--"

"I asked you to tell me what was wrong! And then you didn't tell me the truth. That's the very definition of a lie."

"It's -- well, semantics, but, in any case -- what good would telling you have done? It would only have worried you."

" _And?_ Hello, Dorian, do you remember me? That fool who worries about absolutely everything, as you called me once?"

"I'm not sure I would've put it in _those_ words, but..."

"Well, you did. And you were right. Listen to me. I love you, Dorian, and I worry. I am worried about you right now and for all eternity from this point forward. And do you know what really doesn't help how much I worry? The knowledge that you apparently don't think it necessary to tell me when you're being _tracked by a fucking assassin_."

"All right! All right. I'm sorry, I understand."

"Good," Lavellan said. "Come on, then. We need to deal with this."

"What do you mean, 'we'?"

"What do you think I mean?"

"No, no -- Amatus, please, you need to stay here. I'm not getting you involved in this, I refuse."

"Too late," Lavellan said.

He attempted to turn for the door. Dorian grabbed his arm, tugging him back around. "Stop, listen to me -- I'm begging you, please, don't do this. It's really not necessary."

"Oh, it's not? Then what is your plan, exactly?"

"I -- look, I can defend myself if--"

"Not good enough," Lavellan said, and he yanked his arm away.

"My," Dorian said. "Someone's awfully critical today."

At that, Lavellan wheeled on him again. "This is your _life_ , you incredible idiot! I'm not leaving this to chance!"

"And what about your life? Why should I let you risk that?"

"Because I'm not the target here... and because _I'm_ an assassin. I am literally trained for this. What else am I possibly good for, if not this sort of thing?"

"Yes, but -- you're also not exactly in peak form, are you?"

There was a sharp, sudden silence. Lavellan narrowed his eyes.

Dorian said, "I... didn't mean for it to sound that way. I just -- you have to admit..."

"You think I'm not aware of my limitations?" Lavellan asked, raising his left arm and letting it clank back down to his side. "I am _extremely aware._ I can't get away from being reminded every minute of the damn day. I don't need you to start reminding me, too."

"I am trying to keep you safe, you stubborn creature. You are so talented, I know that, but you have to admit that you're working at a disadvantage now. You know I hate to upset you, but please. I can't have you putting yourself in a situation you can't handle just because you think my life is at risk."

"Really? 'Just'? Because your life being at risk is such a small matter?"

Dorian chuckled weakly. "After everything we've been through, you'd think... It's hardly more at risk than it ever was on a regular day with the Inquisition."

"And what, exactly, do you think I was I doing there?"

 _...Right_ , Dorian thought. _Throwing yourself across the battlefield like an insane person whenever you noticed anyone getting anywhere near me. I suppose that is your overzealous precedent._

"I would never have sent you into danger without me then," Lavellan said. "And I'm sure as hell not going to do it now."

"This is different," Dorian said. "You know full well this is different. You're--"

"End of story, Dorian," Lavellan said. "Now are you going to help me with this or do I have to take care of it myself?"

Dorian hesitated, saying nothing -- until Lavellan shook his head and turned for the door again, at which point Dorian lunged back at him and grabbed his wrist. "All right, all right. Give me a moment, before you go doing something rash... I swear I will tell you the whole of it, but, just -- promise me you won't be upset."

Lavellan shot him a look of disbelief and said, "No."

"...All right. Then... how about promising that you won't kill me?"

"My whole intention here is to keep you alive," Lavellan said. "Killing you myself would be slightly counterproductive."

"Oh. Well. That's a relief, then..." Dorian took Lavellan by the upper arms and steered him around, so his back was to an uncomfortably warm swath of carpets, Dorian firmly placed between him and the door. "Right, so. In brief... It seems myself and some of my political allies are being targeted by an assassin, or possibly more than one, I suppose. They killed one of us a few months ago. A few more of us have had our brushes, but in those cases, our guards managed to warn them off before they revealed themselves."

"You've had brushes yourself?"

"Just one," Dorian said. "Nothing to worry about, I promise."

" _Nothing to worry about?_ "

"Well, yes, it's something to worry about right _now._ But I'd normally be guarded, and... just let me explain this, all right... A few weeks ago, one of my colleagues' guards apparently killed this assassin. There's been nothing since, so we collectively assumed it was just the one woman, and that was the end of it."

"But if the assassin never revealed themselves on any other occasion, why would you assume it was the same person all of those times?"

"That's the interesting thing about this, you see," Dorian said. "My colleague who was assassinated? He was killed with a knife. Just one tiny little knife." He actually laughed a bit. "You understand why that's odd, right? You don't just kill a Magister with a knife! Any one of them should have barriers and wards in place to make sure such a pedestrian humiliation can't happen to them."

"So what are you saying?"

"There is some sort of... nullification effect at work here," Dorian said. "I felt it when I was targeted. My allies who were targeted felt it too. Barriers, spells -- they just vanish, like flames under water."

"Then this is some sort of Templar?"

"It's possible that it's something like that, but we don't know. According to the man who apparently succeeded in killing our assassin, they couldn't figure out how she'd managed the effect. Not that I necessarily believe that, but..."

"You think he wouldn't tell you if he knew?"

"What, do I think a Magister would keep a potentially powerful secret to himself at a risk to his colleagues' lives? I don't know, what do you think?" 

"Ah," Lavellan said. "Silly me... So what makes you think we're being followed right now?"

"I tried to cast something and it went out on me," Dorian said. "It felt the same as before, the last time I was targeted. I've never felt anything else like it."

"Never?" Lavellan asked. "We had some Templars in the Inquisition, didn't we? Surely..."

"Oh, of course, I've met plenty of Templars -- but this doesn't feel the same. When a Templar targets you, you feel like your magic is being... pressed down, almost. You can feel it struggling. This... it's not like that. It's like a candle being snuffed right out. Very odd, to say the least."

Lavellan studied Dorian's face a moment, taking this all in, a feeling of frustration welling up in his chest. "So... whatever this is... you have no way to defend yourself against it."

"Short of your layman's bludgeoning, no. Not especially."

"You knew this," Lavellan said. "You knew all of this. And yet just now you were trying to talk me into letting you handle this alone."

"Well--"

Lavellan cut him off with an angry slap to the chest. " _How?_ Why? How is that possibly a good idea? What the hell in fuck's name is wrong with you?"

"Because I can't protect you like this," Dorian said, sounding suddenly fraught. "It wouldn't even be a concern otherwise... Whatever this group's plan is, I'm sure it has nothing to do with you. If we just split up, then you could--"

"Dorian. Shut up. Elgar'nan, I love you, but sometimes you drive me completely insane."

"That... comes with the territory, I'm afraid..."

"I realize that," Lavellan said. "What did you possibly think you would do out there by yourself, with no magic to speak of?"

"Would you believe I hadn't quite thought it through?"

"Shocking... All right. Listen to me. Whatever is happening here, we're going to handle it together. Understood?"

"Oh, clearly," Dorian said. "A mage with no magic and a one-armed assassin. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Shut it," Lavellan said. "Let's assume you're right and we are being followed. I don't like the odds of us giving them the slip from here... I don't suppose you know much about alleys and sewers in this area?"

"Not particularly, no. I tend to leave dark, foul-smelling places to your expertise."

"No one's given me a tour of these ones yet, I'm afraid... If we let them trail us from here we might just get trapped elsewhere. We can't let that happen -- we need to control the situation."

"You mean lure them out into the open."

"Exactly," Lavellan said. "Do you remember that courtyard we passed a few blocks ago? If we go linger in the far corner, we'd be backed in, out of view of the street. No assassin would be able to resist -- I wouldn't, anyway. But they'll be rather exposed in their approach. As long as they think we're not paying attention, I think we can catch them off-guard right there."

"So, our plan is to... invite them over to kill us? Might I remind you that I likely won't be able to use magic for this confrontation? It's a risk, to say the least."

"I am aware, love. I promise you, I can handle it. ...But if it comes down to it, just club them over the head with your staff. You can do that, right?"

Dorian sighed. "Oh, the indignity."

Lavellan smiled in spite of himself. "You'll survive it, I'm sure."

"Well, I feel less sure of that, but your confidence is appreciated."

They edged back out into the street, nodding their thanks to the shopkeeper waiting outside, whose expression read: _Whatever that was, I do not want to know._ As they retraced their steps to the courtyard, they edged in protectively close behind another group of moving people, and Dorian cast a tiny flame in his palm, cupping it under bended fingers. "Magic is working just now," he whispered.

"Good to know," Lavellan said.

The courtyard in question was tucked through an archway, appearing small from the street, but growing expansive once they stepped through. It was bordered by giant slabs of crumbling stone wall, a geometric pattern of generously filled planter boxes set in the middle. Dorian and Lavellan made for the back corner of the courtyard, clear out of view of the street, where Lavellan pointed Dorian to place his back against the wall.

"All right, respectable Magister," he said, wrapping his hand around Dorian's flame-cupping one and holding it between their chests. "You came here into this private corner because you are about to be thoroughly distracted by your male elven company. Very shameful stuff."

"Well, that does sound like me," Dorian said. 

Lavellan got on his toes, pressing his lips to Dorian's, trying hard to act like he wasn't currently tensed all the way through. Dorian obliged him, although, clearly, this was the most hesitant, innocent kissing they'd ever done. And then, after just a minute at this, they both felt it as the little flame in Dorian's hand sputtered out.

They kissed like nothing was happening for a few moments more, then Lavellan drew back an inch and whispered, "Neck now."

He turned around and pressed right back against Dorian, as if things were going that way, placing Dorian's hand lightly on his hip. Dorian dutifully kissed him down the side of his neck, and Lavellan leaned back into him, trying to make it seem as though his eyes were blissfully closing, all the while squinting at the assassin's likeliest approach. 

For a moment, he saw nothing. Not a great sign for this plan. Though, at least if this manoeuvre failed, he currently had Dorian safely sandwiched between himself and a wall. This assassin would have to knife their way through him first...

And then he caught it: a shifting edge of a person's form flitting their way.

There was almost no time to prepare -- this person was practically inside his window of opportunity already. Two seconds, one, and then Lavellan lashed out with the fastest leap he could muster, slamming his fist right into the approaching form -- the would-be assassin was knocked back seemingly out of thin air, a dagger clattering to the ground, the man himself hitting the stone and skidding a few paces before scrabbling back up to his feet.

Lavellan sprang right on the man, unconsciously baring his teeth, near snarling -- he knuckled up his hand in the man's collar, backing him right into the nearest planter box, twisting the fabric up tight, half-choking this assassin with his own shirt. 

Normally this would have been the time for Lavellan to pull out a threatening dagger with his other hand, but after just one clumsy wobble he recalled that his only hand capable of grasping anything was currently occupied. At the same time, he caught the telltale motion of this assassin reaching into his coat for another weapon.

So Lavellan did the only thing that was accessible to him in that moment: reared back the entire bulk of his prosthetic arm and smashed it across the man's head, with a loud metal impact that sent him sliding lifelessly down the side of the planter box and crumpling onto the ground.

There was a moment of silence.

"Do you know what I love about you, Amatus?" Dorian asked. "You're so resourceful."

"Thanks," Lavellan said, as he poked the man experimentally with his foot. He actually seemed fairly dead already -- a growing pool of blood from his head appeared to confirm it. "How's your magic doing?"

"Still nothing... Could there be more of them?"

They edged back against the wall, eyeing the approach for a stretch of tense, quiet minutes -- but nothing seemed to be happening around them.

"I'll search his body," Lavellan said. "You watch my back."

"Seeing as you're the one with a talent for spotting assassins in mid-flight, perhaps I should search the body and you should watch my back."

"But then you're the one whose back is exposed."

"And?"

Lavellan sighed harshly, then he pulled a dagger with his right hand, nudging Dorian along with his elbow. "Go on then. I'll stand behind you."

With Lavellan looming over him, eyes trained on the approach, Dorian got down on one knee and poked through the man's coat. "Let's hope this is one of those people who keeps an organized missive detailing exactly who he works for and why..."

"So thoughtful when they do that."

"I know, it's -- Hello!" Dorian edged a glowing runestone out of the man's pocket. "What on earth could this be?"

At his touch, the glow seemed to respond, then died away. Dorian studied the runestone for a moment, then raised a hand, casting a bright and successful flame. "Ha! Fascinating."

"So... is that what does it? That stupid little thing?"

"So it would appear," Dorian said. "My word, this could be terrible in the wrong hands... but if we study it? Just imagine what use this could be."

"Planning to cripple your enemies, are you?"

"Well, in a pinch, perhaps," Dorian said. "But think of what else. This could be protective. Not only might we figure out how to protect against this effect itself... but the effect could also protect you. And once I can work out how this was made, I might even be able to incorporate that into the wards I have around the house, it would be a great asset. This is honestly incredible! No wonder Albanus didn't want to share, that opportunistic bastard..."

"Can I tell you what I love about you?" Lavellan asked. "You're fucking brilliant."

"Oh. Thank you. I'm rather pleased about that myself." Dorian tucked the runestone somewhere within his clothing, then casually stepped over the assassin's body and came to Lavellan's side, taking him by the shoulders. "I'm sorry, darling. Mortified as I am to admit this, the idea of losing you terrifies me -- but that's no excuse for me not to believe in you. You didn't deserve that. I should have trusted the eight thousand examples you've shown me over the years and believed that you could handle this."

"You really should trust me, yes," Lavellan said, "but it's all right, Dorian." _This is kind of a surprise to me too, if I'm perfectly honest..._

"On the other hand," Dorian said, "I've reconsidered what we discussed earlier. From now on, I do believe I _will_ be keeping you to my bedroom."

"Oh? I thought we established that your locks can't hold me."

"Who says I need locks to keep you in there?" Dorian said, with the most blatantly suggestive eyebrow waggle he could muster.

Lavellan laughed aloud. "Flirting over a warm corpse? You're horrible."

"Now, now, you're the one who romantically dropped the corpse at my feet. What am I supposed to think when you go doing things like that?"

"Oh, right. That's me. The king of murderous romance."

"It's just your niche, I suppose." Dorian took his arm. "Come along, then. Let's get home before anything else happens..."

* * *

The next morning, Dorian reluctantly headed out for a few hours of Magister-ing. "My allies will need to know about this business," he said. "I'm afraid the implications are a bit too serious for me to put this off."

"So you're sharing the knowledge with them, are you? Not keeping it for yourself like what's-his-name?"

"I'm no fool," Dorian said. "Great power kept in secret? That's how you breed villainy. I'm not about to take that route! It would be so predictable."

Lavellan grinned at him with genuine adoration and said, "You're so practical."

"Thank you, my dear," Dorian said. "There are a few people I actually somewhat trust... I'll share it with them. We can keep tabs on each other, and they can help me speed up my research. Hopefully we can then figure out how to thwart this business, and who exactly is sending these people after us."

"Just be careful today, all right? Don't you dare get assassinated without me."

"It's not on my to-do list, I assure you!"

Once Dorian had left him -- after demanding repeated assurances that Lavellan wouldn't do anything reckless in his absence -- Lavellan padded through the hallways of Dorian's home, asking around with the servants until he located Endriel, sitting in a chair in the servant's quarters, mending something over his knee.

"Hi there," Lavellan said, and Endriel shot straight up to his feet. "Oh, you're all right, Lethallin! I'm just saying hello."

"Sorry. Sorry," Endriel said, edging nervously from one foot to another. "Ir abelas."

"Tel'enfanim," Lavellan said firmly -- _don't be afraid_. "Do you have a minute to talk with me?"

"Of course!" Endriel said, and he hastily cleared a pile of clothes off the chair facing him, then gestured to it. He stayed frozen in the air that way, refusing to sit all the way down, until Lavellan at last sat across from him.

"How long have you been in Tevinter now?" Lavellan asked.

"I don't really know, Ser. I expect it's been a few years. Three, four..."

"I'm guessing they haven't been easy ones. How are you doing here now?"

"Everyone is very kind here," Endriel said. He had a tendency to gaze down at the floor when speaking, Lavellan noticed. "I mean, uh -- everyone in Lord Pavus's house. Not everyone in Tevinter."

"I figured... And 'Lord Pavus' himself, how has he been to you?"

"He's very generous."

"Ir dirthara," Lavellan said -- a request for honesty. "Dorian is my 'friend,' obviously, but if there's anything troubling you here, I'd like to know... so I can kick his ass over it," he added with a smile.

Endriel looked up in what seemed like horror, shaking his head. "Oh, no, no. Nothing, he is very generous, everything is fine. Really, please, don't say anything. I would... very much like to stay here."

"I won't say anything you don't want me to, I promise," Lavellan said. "Just, you do seem a bit frightened of him."

Endriel flushed, but he kept eye contact. "He is a very powerful Magister. I'm not... frightened, exactly, but... I'm..."

"Intimidated? Or..."

"Something like that."

 _'A very powerful Magister,'_ Lavellan thought. _Weird way to think of Dorian. But, then, I suppose that's exactly what he is._

"I imagine it doesn't help that the first thing you saw Dorian do was kill the last man you worked for," Lavellan said. "Was that... hard to watch?"

"I'm not sorry he killed him," Endriel said. It was the first quick, assured thing he'd said. "But I... yes. I'd never seen such things before Tevinter. It's... difficult for me."

"I can understand that," Lavellan said. "What was your place in your clan, before this?"

Endriel actually lit up. "Apprentice craftsman! And mender, sometimes..."

"Still at it, I see," Lavellan said, gesturing at the mending currently set aside on Endriel's knee, and smiling at him. "The Vir Atish'an doesn't get much appreciation in Tevinter, does it?"

Endriel giggled at that, albeit nervously. "There's a phrase I didn't think I would hear again."

"We're a long way from home, Lethallin... You needn't fear Dorian, though. He's a good person. You're safe in his home, I promise you that."

"Thank you. It means so much, really, just to have you talk to me. And -- I did mean it when I said I appreciate when Lord Pavus makes the effort to say things in elven. It just..." Endriel was back to studying the floor again. "It makes me feel like I'm an actual person. Do you know what I mean?"

 _Poor kid,_ Lavellan thought. _In what horrible ways have they made you feel like anything else but that?_

Fenris seemed to be present in Lavellan's head at this moment, crossing his arms, with that penetrating stare. _This is what is happening here,_ he seemed to say. _Immediate, present horrors that your man's work doesn't address. These people see your man as a powerful Magister and nothing else. That is what he is to them. The rest doesn't matter._

 _Yes, you're right, but it does matter,_ Lavellan thought back. _Dorian's kindness matters to Endriel. It matters at least that little bit._

"You must want to go home, to Ferelden," Lavellan said. "Could I help you do that?"

"I..." Endriel was wide-eyed, crying instantly -- what precise emotion this was, Lavellan wasn't sure. "I don't know where my clan is..."

Lavellan patted his arm and asked, "Where did you see them last? Who are they?"

"O-on the coast south of Denerim. Clan Alerion. But... it's been... a long time since then."

"Maybe I could look for them."

"I don't know if you would ever find them," Endriel said, now hurriedly wiping his tears away, trying to pretend they hadn't happened. "They don't like contact with strangers... but... would you try, really? That would mean everything. Even if you don't find them, I... I'm not sure what to say. That you, of all people..."

"I promise I'll try, Lethallin," Lavellan said. "I can bring you whatever news I find next time I visit here. Although... if you want, in the meantime -- if you're eager to leave Tevinter... I could get you at least to the Free Marches. I'm heading to Kirkwall after this. It's not exactly a glamorous existence there, but..."

"Oh," Endriel said, and he absently fingered one of the scars on his forearm. "Next week, right? I... think, just for now, I should stay here. I feel I have a debt to repay to Lord Pavus. I don't know if I've repaid it yet."

"He doesn't see it that way, I'm certain."

"But I do," Endriel said. "After seeing what Lord Pavus did to... I was sure he'd just kill me too, get me out of the way. Er -- um -- not because -- it's just, that's what my first master would have done..."

"And you didn't know Dorian yet. I understand."

Endriel nodded. "When he offered me 'paid work' I really thought it was a cruel joke. That it wasn't is... is... I don't know how to describe it. Except that I'd do anything to earn my keep here. Anything."

"From what Dorian says, you're more than helpful enough already," Lavellan said. "Really. He appreciates your hard work very much."

Endriel was filled with such a look of subservient pride at this news that it made Lavellan feel downright uncomfortable. "Thank you. That's a relief to hear."

 _That's how he relates to Dorian,_ Lavellan thought. _There isn't much choice about that in a place like this, is there? Every facet of Tevinter society tells you that's the way it is here. And you're well-trained to follow the way of the people around you, aren't you... But Dorian is so much outside that. He's just this incredibly warm, stupid, wonderful human. I wish that was something I could share._

"Just out of curiosity," Lavellan said. "Has Dorian tried saying anything other than 'ma serannas'?"

"Um, I don't think..." Endriel frowned pensively. "Oh! Not quite the same, but... um... once I mended a robe for him and he said I'd done Sylaise proud."

Lavellan stifled some unintentional laughter at the sudden recollection of why Dorian had learned about Sylaise. "Oh, Dorian, seriously..."

"I appreciated the gesture," Endriel said with a tiny smile and a little shrug. "What else have you taught him?"

"Just... whatever came up," Lavellan said. "I'll teach him something better before I go, I promise."

* * *

They were cuddled up in an Inquisition tent in some god-forsaken part of the Ferelden wilderness, having at last dealt with the area's final camp of Red Templars. What with their battle-sore joints and the rain lashing down outside, the warmth of being curled up here was all the more appreciated. Face nestled against Dorian's neck, halfway to sleeping already, Lavellan muttered, "Ar lath ma."

"And what does that mean?" Dorian asked.

Lavellan took a moment to gather back some consciousness, to process this question, before it suddenly dawned on him what he'd just said. _No. Oh, no._

"Well?" Dorian asked.

"Nothing. Forget it." 

" _Nothing_ , is it? Well, that's hardly suspicious." 

"Just... you know. Elf things." 

"Just elf things. Secret elf things I'm not meant to know?" 

"Please forget it," Lavellan said, and he took Dorian by the collar, kissing him frantically, repeatedly -- an obvious attempt at distraction, though in that moment Dorian didn't particularly mind.

Still, the question nagged at him. Lavellan was usually happy to oblige in teaching him snips of elven -- "fenedhis," "ma serannas," and whatever else might come out of Lavellan's mouth when he was speaking with Solas, or passing Dalish elves -- or even with Dorian himself, sometimes, when Lavellan was tired or unfocused. In fact, Lavellan was usually thrilled when Dorian showed an interest in it. So this jumpy reaction was intriguing, to say the least.

Three simple syllables -- easy enough to remember. Dorian had hung onto them until the next day, then asked, "What was it you said -- 'ar lath ma'?"

Lavellan went slightly pink at that, which was 'yes' enough for Dorian's needs. "Did I? No, I don't think so. I have no idea what you mean."

Dorian tried several more times, and each time Lavellan wriggled out of answering. For a while, then, Dorian decided to drop it -- until, in a rather desperate moment of naked contact in his Skyhold quarters, Lavellan had let the words slip again.

It halted Dorian in his tracks. "That! What does that mean?"

"Don't you dare stop, I'll kill you," was Lavellan's response.

Dorian had obliged him for the moment, but when they were snuggled up afterwards, he leaned into Lavellan's ear and whispered, " _What does 'ar lath ma' mean._ "

"What? Nothing. It's just words, Dorian."

"Well, I gathered that much..."

"It's not important," Lavellan said. "Words. Sounds. Elf things. Please go to sleep."

This was becoming too much. Dorian could only bang his head against an obstacle for so long. So the next morning he'd sought out the next-nearest expert on the subject, who he found bent over some writings on his desk.

"Could I trouble you with an elven vocabulary question, Solas?" Dorian asked. 

"If you must... though I am surprised you would ask me instead of the Inquisitor." 

"He won't tell me what it means," Dorian said. "Even though he's the one who keeps saying it to me! I'm starting to feel like he's tormenting me on purpose."

Solas half-smiled and said, "Ah, so you would like me to ruin his fun?" 

"I just want to know. I _like_ knowing things."

"All right, Dorian. I suppose I can appreciate an earnest request for knowledge. What is the word?"

"I think he said it was words, plural... 'Ar lath ma.'" 

It wasn't often that Solas betrayed his feelings plainly to Dorian's face, but now he looked genuinely surprised, and he took a long, heavy pause. "I am uncertain of whether I should share that with you."

"What, is it that bad?" 

"I only mean that it is rather personal. You should ask the Inquisitor." 

"But he refuses to say. What kind of personal do you mean, exactly? Embarrassingly personal? Even... inappropriate?" 

"No, nothing like that. But I do not think I should be the one to tell you, I'm sorry." 

"Oh, not you, too... So is it some kind of elven secret? Something a simple human isn't meant to know?" 

"No," Solas said, sounding increasingly less patient. "It is simply an affectionate phrase, Dorian. Will that do?" 

"Then why all the secrecy about it?" 

"The phrase itself is not a secret. But it feels inappropriate for me to share on the Inquisitor's behalf." 

"Come, you've got to give me _some_ guidance, this has been driving me insane for weeks. Is it some kind of... private musing on our sexual organs? Or do you mean more of a romantic sentiment? A sweeping declaration of love or some such?"

Solas sighed deeply and said, "The latter. In fact, it quite literally means 'I love you.'"

Now it was Dorian's turn to take a heavy pause. "Ah," he said. "I see."

Perhaps it went without saying that Dorian had never been particularly comfortable with those three words in that order.

It was hardly even a question of sentiment. Even years into their relationship, Dorian was happy to express his affection for Lavellan in myriad ways -- verbal, physical -- but when it came to that one particular three-word phrase...

Something about it just felt so prescribed. It was like a horrible cliché, and there was nothing Dorian could do to it to make it feel natural coming out of his mouth. The mere idea of speaking "I love you" aloud made Dorian want to cringe with embarrassment. Surely Lavellan was worthy of more effort than a trite phrase like that.

And yet, whenever Lavellan looked at him and earnestly said the words, Dorian was utterly convinced by them. He'd never quite understood how that worked.

Regardless, Dorian had always avoided saying the phrase -- no matter the context, he would work out some verbal gymnastics to vault over it. Dorian felt lucky indeed that Lavellan had never questioned this behaviour or demanded that Dorian do otherwise.

But upon hearing the translation from Solas, Dorian had no idea yet that Lavellan would be so accepting of his aversion to that phrase. So, for the first minute or so, he was almost relieved that Lavellan had refused to translate for him. And yet...

Dorian found himself thinking about the way Lavellan had been cuddled close the first time he'd said it, and the way he'd flushed pink when Dorian asked him to translate, and the way he'd been lighting up every time they encountered each other in the library these days, and the way he'd lately been almost self-sacrificingly protective on the battlefield, and...

Suddenly it all made sense. Which itself made no sense at all. The Inquisitor wasn't supposed to be _in love_ with him. That was not how this sort of thing worked. And yet, having heard this outrageous idea, Dorian was almost baffled to find himself wanting it to be true. It was, in fact, exactly what he wanted.

So, the more he thought about it, the more Dorian felt frustrated with Lavellan for not saying what he felt. Lavellan knew Dorian's history with these matters -- he should know full well that Dorian would never be able to bring up the sentiment on his own. If Lavellan was going to go ahead and brazenly feel the impossible, how dare he then keep it to himself?

When Lavellan found Dorian in the library next, he'd had his face buried in some book. "Dorian!" Lavellan said. "I have the stupidest story for you..."

"Oh?" Dorian said, not looking up.

"You remember what Sera and I did to Cullen's--" Lavellan paused, then leaned entirely sideways over his chair, attempting to make eye contact. "Sorry, are you busy? I can come back later."

"I'm sure you'll do as you like. Why should that concern me?"

"...All right," Lavellan said, and he placed his hands over the page Dorian was reading, leaning in closer. Dorian looked up now, unimpressed. "What have I done?"

"Perhaps you should rather be asking yourself what you _haven't_ done."

"What I... haven't...? Uh... It's not your birthday, is it?"

Dorian scoffed, then tugged the book out from Lavellan's hands, shutting it and turning to stow it away on the shelf. Without looking back, he said, "I don't particularly enjoy learning about your feelings from Solas, of all people." 

"I'm... sorry?" 

"'Ar lath ma.' I know what it means." 

"...Oh." _No, no, no. Shit. Wonderful. Now he thinks I'm some sort of clingy psychopath._ Lavellan fussed a hand through his hair, then said, "Dorian, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make this--"

"Why wouldn't you tell me?" Dorian was looking at him now -- and he suddenly sounded hurt, of all things. Lavellan was momentarily stunned. "Why would you keep that to yourself? What if you're slaughtered out there? We risk it every day. Am I meant to live the rest of my life not knowing how you actually felt?" 

"I... didn't think about it that way. I'm sorry. I just... I didn't want to overwhelm you. I thought you wouldn't want to hear it, that's all." 

Dorian made that one face of his, as if he couldn't possibly bear this nonsense for a second longer. "You thought I _wouldn't want to hear it?_ Have you gone completely mad? Have you accidentally opened a rift in your skull and sucked your entire brain into the Fade?" 

"That's... possible," Lavellan said. "Dorian, please don't be upset..." 

"Tell me again, then."

"What?" 

Dorian fixed him with a level stare, as if this was any of their usual dares. "If you really mean it, then have the courage to look at me and say it." 

Lavellan swallowed visibly. It took him a minute to get a grip around the internal stopper made of fear and repression and awkwardness and pry it out of the way. After all, he'd been packing these feelings back behind it for quite some time now.

"Ar lath ma," he said, and then, "I love you, Dorian." 

"See?" Dorian said, and he wrapped Lavellan in a hug. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" 

Lavellan instantly dissolved -- this level of acceptance being the last thing he'd ever expected -- and with the stopper now right out of the way, it came babbling out of him: "I love you. I'm sorry. I'm so afraid of losing you that it makes me totally irrational. But I love you. I love you." 

Dorian said, "And I feel the same." 

Lavellan stared dumbly up at him. "Really?" 

"Yes, I know," Dorian said. "Actual feelings, from me! Who would have thought?"

"I just... wow. Okay," Lavellan said. "Am I awake? I feel... unspeakably lucky right now."

"Hmm, true -- me expressing actual feelings is a rather rare and spectacular phenomenon. You ought to mark this in your calendar."

Lavellan gave him a smile like he had no idea what was even going on right now and said, "I will absolutely get right on that."

* * *

The entirety of that early conversation came to Dorian in a flash when, at the end of two weeks together in Minrathous, they were regretfully poised to say another goodbye. It sparked in his brain when Lavellan gazed up at him and said, "From now on, please tell me what's going on with you. All right?"

Funny, for someone who had once refused to translate his feelings. But while that same overly worried Lavellan still obviously existed in front of him, Dorian supposed the time when "should I tell Dorian about my feelings" had been one of his many concerns was long past.

Apparently reading some hesitation in Dorian's pause, Lavellan put a hand around the back of Dorian's head, gently ruffling his hair. The nerve. "All right, Dorian?"

"All right," Dorian said. He struggled, for a moment, with the question of whether he could make himself say that comforting phrase. As much as it felt off in his mouth, he knew Lavellan would appreciate hearing it. But it stuck in his throat as always. So he grinned -- more at his own predictability than anything else -- and said, "Ar lath ma."

Lavellan cocked a brow, turning up half a smirk -- and then he kissed the corner of Dorian's mouth and said, "I love you, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh. so soft
> 
> I don't speak elven either. Words from [here!](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Elven_language)


	5. Measuring risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I solemnly promise, once I get safely into Minrathous, I'll bring you a whole thing of candied dates."
> 
> "Oh, good. Because I wasn't going to be disappointed enough when you turned up dead. Now I also get to be upset about my lack of dates."
> 
> In which Lavellan attempts to make plans, whether Dorian likes it or not.

There had been a time when Dorian never worried about Lavellan. Pointless pursuit, he had figured, to waste time worrying about a man who could literally tear the Veil in half.

Or, well, that wasn't quite true. More accurately, there was a time when Dorian could have counted the occasions when he had bothered to worry about Lavellan on two fingers.

First: Adamant Fortress. Lavellan had yelled at them to get out of the Fade, to run for the rift that would let them escape. He'd even swatted Dorian's shoulder, in a way that Dorian had taken to mean, _I'm right behind you._

Only he wasn't. Dorian, Cassandra and Solas had stumbled out into the fortress, then turned around and discovered no one. The rift continued to whirl, green and blank, and nobody came out after them. More than a minute ticked past, each second vibrating with greater agony.

"Something is wrong," Cassandra kept saying. "Something has happened..."

"We have to go back," Dorian said, even as the idea of it made him sick with fear. "Can we do that? Solas, can we go back through?"

Solas hesitated. "It's..."

But then the rift had mercifully sputtered, and the others came tumbling safely out into reality.

No, not everyone. Two instead of three. But Lavellan was there. That was enough to wash Dorian with blessed relief. (Though he'd still appropriately chastised Lavellan for daring to cause him such distress.)

Second: the temple, after Corypheus. The final blow having been delivered, the ancient magister torn to bits, every illogically floating piece of the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes had come crashing back down to the ground -- and when they'd all begun to pick themselves up from the impact, neither Lavellan nor Solas was anywhere in sight.

"Inquisitor?" Cassandra was calling, searching through the fallen boulders and shattered debris. "Inquisitor! Are you alive?"

"Oh, no. Please," Dorian said, under his breath, as he weakly attempted to get himself off the ground -- Sera appeared from nowhere, trying to help him up with all the muscle of her spindly limbs. (As he staggered upright, Dorian ended up nearly knocking her over instead.) 

"Come on, we've got to help look," Sera said, somewhere between angry and whimpering. "Come on!"

They leaned on each other, four knees still shaking from the painful landing, and attempted to search together, taking turns calling Lavellan's name. "D-don't be an arse!" Sera added.

"This is ridiculous," Dorian said -- almost beseeching the universe. "Please. Not now. Not after _all this._ " 

It just figured. How dare they even think everything could possibly be wrapped up neatly, without some horrible tragedy to cap it all off? Who better than the beloved, world-saving Herald to be sacrificed for the sake of dramatic flourish?

And then -- yet again -- Lavellan had simply appeared, standing over them at the top of some steps. If anything, he looked in better shape than the rest of them did.

" _Ugh_ ," Dorian said -- disgusted relief. "Thank everything."

Lavellan smiled brightly at them. For that moment, he ignored the many other calls for his attention and skipped right down the steps toward the two of them. "All right?!" 

"Barely!" Sera said, through a face-crackingly wide smile of delight.

Lavellan tried to rub Sera's head -- instead, they ended up exchanging a few fond, disbelieving slaps. Then he turned to Dorian, grabbed him by the face, and kissed the sense right out of him.

"Aw," Sera said. "If I puke, it's a happy one. Mostly."

They ignored her. Close enough that their noses were still touching, Dorian grinned and said, "In front of the entire Inquisition? How brazen of you. What will everyone think?"

"We just killed Corypheus," Lavellan said. "I don't give a _fuck_ what they think." And then he did it again.

Sera giggled. "That's the way."

After all that, how could Dorian be blamed for believing Lavellan was invincible? The elf seemed determined to prove that point.

That was past, of course. Dorian was far beyond the luxury of pretending that he didn't need to worry about Lavellan. Indeed, after all those carefree years, Dorian now found himself worrying nonstop. It was irritating, really. Yet he couldn't seem to shut it off.

The seeds were planted in the Frostback Basin. Proximity to a rift always provoked a burst of fizzing green light from Lavellan's hand. On any regular Inquisition day, Lavellan would glance down, or raise his palm to his face, and say something pithy, to the tune of: "Shit."

But in the Frostback Basin, Dorian had chanced to spot something different: as the anchor in his palm flared to life, Lavellan had winced with pain, pulling his hand inward. 

Dorian hadn't thought much of it at first -- but it was enough to make him keep an eye on Lavellan, and suddenly he was noticing it constantly, every time they neared a rift: a wince. A start of pain. And Lavellan was making a clear effort to keep his mouth pressed shut whenever the anchor roiled in his palm, rather than the usual calm curse or stupid statement, such as, "Oh, look. It's demon o'clock."

And when Lavellan sealed the rifts, he would yell out -- audible cries of painful exertion. It was hard to hear them over the crackling and bursting of the Veil, but once Dorian had started paying attention, he noticed it every time. Not just once, but three times in a row.

"Are you all right?" he had finally asked, touching some hesitant fingertips to the back of Lavellan's hand. "It's hurting you, isn't it?"

Lavellan had looked at him, expressionless, for a moment. "Well, it's not comfortable. It never is."

"But are you in pain? Is it worse? It just seems harder on you than usual."

"I'm very tired, Dorian, that's all."

Dorian had foolishly convinced himself to accept this. Because what did he know about ancient Veil-tearing magic? And these Hakkonites and the bloody hordes of river-spiders had been wearing them out all day -- perhaps exhaustion did make sealing rifts harder. How could Dorian know any differently?

Then, as they curled up together at night, he began to notice the anchor's size. The mark was clearly getting bigger. But Dorian had rationalized that away, too -- perhaps each rift Lavellan sealed added power to the mark, or some nonsense like that. Whatever the reason, it couldn't possibly be dangerous -- because with Solas being absent they no longer had anyone with them who knew anything about this magic, and if the mark growing was a problem, that meant Lavellan would be in actual trouble. And Dorian wasn't about to deal with _that_ reality. No. No. Perish the thought.

And then, all that being the case, Dorian had left Lavellan and headed home to Tevinter for a full month, like there was absolutely nothing to be concerned about back south. 

When they were at last reunited in the Winter Palace, Dorian should have noticed immediately how much worse things had gotten. The mark was even bigger. The flare-ups were more frequent, with even less predictability. But even before the council got out of hand, there had been Dorian's impending departure to discuss -- it had been a gigantic, upsetting distraction from absolutely everything else.

"It's _not_ that you're leaving. I understand why, for fuck's sake." He could picture Lavellan saying this, sitting in a chair in some guest suite on their first night there, curling his fingers over the mark, which was casting flickering green light on his pained expression, crackling audibly. "It's that you wouldn't tell me, like you don't even trust me to understand -- it's that you'd let me find out that way, after telling absolutely everyone else! Fuck, sometimes it just feels like you don't care about me at all." 

And Dorian remembered standing there, clearly aware of the churning of the mark, but looking past it, because he couldn't let it distract him from explaining to Lavellan every way that that his accusation was untrue. _Of course I care. It's not that. Please believe me, I do._

And then, past the Crossroads: the flare-ups grew more and more serious. Lavellan was frequently crying out in pain, far from any rifts. Still, rationalizations: _It's because we're surrounded by ancient elven magic. It's an anomaly, nothing more. As soon as we're out of here, he will be fine._

When the realization finally dawned on Dorian, ridiculously tardy -- when Leliana pulled him aside, warned him about Lavellan's agonizing episode in front of the advisors, his subsequent meltdown, his verbal admission that this mark was finally killing him -- Dorian felt desperately furious. They'd had so much time together these past two years, and now time was running out on absolutely everything. Dorian could have dedicated that entire time to studying the mark. Why hadn't he? Why had they ignored the obvious? Why hadn't Lavellan just told him earlier that something was amiss?

"Why didn't you say something?" Dorian asked Lavellan's back, as they made yet another nervous foray into the Crossroads. "I could've done... I don't know. _Something_."

Lavellan hadn't answered this question. He simply turned back, looked at Dorian with an expression of sad futility, then said, "Whatever happens, I wouldn't trade the years we've had together for anything. I love you." 

_Twist the fucking knife, why don't you._ It was everything Dorian could do not to dissolve on the spot. His best defense was to lash out, with the only words he could manage: "I knew you would break my heart, you bloody bastard..." 

"Dorian," Lavellan said, trying to sound soothing, sympathetic. He took Dorian's face in his healthy palm, looking him right in the eyes. "Stop that. Listen to me."

Vivienne and Cassandra had gone some respectful paces ahead of them, waiting patiently for this conversation to finish. How Dorian hated their resolute calm in this moment. If only they had brought Sera along to add some wailing pathos to this situation -- at least then Dorian wouldn't feel quite so much like he was the only one losing his mind.

"Solas fixed this once before," Lavellan said. "He is here, somewhere. We'll find him. Maybe he can fix it again." 

There was that irrational little elf, trying to make Dorian feel better even as he was the one being ripped apart from the inside. Dorian almost wanted to laugh at how stupid that was. For now, he just nodded weakly.

Lavellan paused, swallowed, and said, "And if he can't -- if this is it, then..."

"No, no. Please, let's just leave it at that for now."

"Dorian, listen to me," Lavellan said. "If anything happens to me here, please promise me you'll let yourself move on." 

"Amatus, don't you dare." 

"I mean it. Promise you won't waste your time wondering what else you could have done. You've made me happier than I could ever have imagined. If this is really _it_ \--" 

"Stop that," Dorian said. "For the love of Andraste, don't finish that sentence. I know what you're saying, I understand. But if you dare say another word of that right now, then I will kill you myself."

Lavellan stared at Dorian for a moment, then smiled with the tiniest corner of his mouth. "Do you want me to live or not?"

Dorian took Lavellan's face in his hands, then, and held their foreheads together. "I am not ready to think about that question. Do you understand me? I am not ready for this."

"Then we'd better hurry," Lavellan said. He then immediately undermined the sentiment by planting a long, reassuring kiss on Dorian's lips. 

Cassandra didn't say a word about any of this, but as they moved on through the Crossroads she'd come over to touch Dorian's back, then had given it a simple rub. He'd appreciated the gesture, whatever it meant.

Find Solas. Stave off this awful heartbreak. They had to succeed in that. Because the heartbreak was much more than Dorian thought he could possibly bear.

But then they'd lost Lavellan on the other side of the eluvian, and it seemed the heartbreak had arrived regardless. And, for a moment, Dorian really did feel like he might shatter to bits. What sickening relief, then, to actually find Lavellan alive on the other side of the eluvian, doubled over on the ground. 

There was no return to dismissive, arrogant assumptions after all that, however. It had been far too close for comfort. Dorian was still not ready to bear that level of heartbreak, and he would do anything to stop Lavellan from flinging himself back into harm's way -- whether he had the elf's cooperation or not.

* * *

Varric found Lavellan alone in the wide space of the Viscount's Keep dining room, swinging his left arm around.

"What are you doing there, kid?"

"Just trying to make this look natural," Lavellan said. "What do you think? Does it look like I'm effortlessly lifting my normal arm that weighs as much as a... normal arm?"

"A little heavier than that, maybe, but not bad. How are you adjusting to it? Getting more comfortable?"

"Good, yeah. It's nice not to be stared at in public all the time." Lavellan brightened. "Oh! Did I tell you I killed someone with this?"

" _What?_ How? ...Wait, no. Don't tell me. It can't possibly be as good as the story I'm imagining right now."

"Then I look forward to hearing you tell your version as the unvarnished truth," Lavellan said. "Thanks, though, really. I owe you one for sorting this for me."

"No problem, kid. Happy to help."

Varric watched Lavellan idly for another minute as the elf attempted to casually hold his arm at varying heights and angles.

"Say," Varric said. "Have you considered giving the arm a name? Might help you get more comfortable with it."

"Oh. Let me guess. You think I should name it... Dorian."

Varric scoffed. "Sparkler didn't build it, did he? Besides, I'm not sure a blunt, heavy instrument really captures his... finesse."

Lavellan lifted his prosthetic arm, then, studying it. "You said Bianca had a hand in the designs for this?"

"So I hear. She never can resist a challenge."

"Well, then, maybe I'll call it Bianca."

Varric's face fell. "Kid... No. Don't do that."

"Why not?" Lavellan asked innocently. "She helped build it. And you just said--"

"Yes, but... it's just weird."

"How about 'Bianca 2,' then?"

Varric narrowed his eyes, folded his arms. "All right, I think you must be feeling better. You haven't been this much of a little shit in months."

Lavellan laughed. "You make it too easy sometimes, Varric!"

"What's that? You want to find another thoughtful viscount to shelter you in his home?"

"No, Ser. Sorry, Ser..."

"That's what I thought," Varric said. "Look, when you have a minute, Fenris told me he wanted to talk to you."

"Oh? Okay, I'll find him. Thanks, Varric."

"Would you look at that," Varric said. "My two depressed, murdering elves, making friends with each other! Really warms the heart."

Lavellan scowled. "Are you scheduling playdates for me?"

"Of course not. You're an adult. I would never," Varric said. "Now, you two kids just play nice. And be home before dark, you hear me?"

"Ugh."

* * *

"It is good you made it safely back from Tevinter," Fenris said. "You had no trouble?"

"Nothing insurmountable," Lavellan said. "But unfortunately I don't have much information for you just now. If there is any organized network to help escapees move south, I couldn't find a trace of it. Which doesn't mean it doesn't exist, of course..."

"It could very well mean that, however," Fenris said. "There is little reason for any elf with their freedom to stay on that side of the border. It would be quite dangerous."

"You could be right. But, well, I'll see. I was thinking next time I'd make the trip through Hasmal, then across the Silent Plains..."

"Ah. Good. That would be the most likely place to find this network, if there is any. I took that route myself."

"If you have any advice before I go, then, I'd appreciate it. I hope to do it soon..."

"Certainly," Fenris said, although he was studying Lavellan carefully now. "So. You are eager to return there?"

It was hard to tell whether this was meant to be judgemental or not. Fenris seemed to always sound slightly unimpressed no matter his intent. "It was good to be with Dorian, that's all."

"You did not find him... different? It was not an adjustment, seeing him in that environment?"

 _You mean, as 'a very powerful magister'? Sure, I guess. But he's still very much just Dorian._ "Not exactly. He is doing great things -- that's good to see... There is at least one assassin after him, though. That's not exactly comforting."

"It is Tevinter. That would only be surprising if it truly were just _one_ assassin."

"Well, _now_ I feel better, thanks." Lavellan sighed heavily. "But, yes, I know, it's to be expected. It all makes it that much harder to leave him. Part of the reason I'm anxious to go back, I suppose."

"Why did you leave, then?"

"Pardon?"

"You could be with him still, if you wished. If the danger is that great then leaving his side may be a mistake. Why would you go?"

"He thinks it isn't safe for me to stay there."

"And is that his decision to make on your behalf? You have simply accepted this?"

"Well... well, not _exactly_ , but..."

"If I could have followed Hawke," Fenris began, then stopped abruptly. He may have been seeking the appropriate end to this sentence, or he may simply have thought that the sentence didn't need finishing.

Either way, Lavellan felt like a complete dick. Here he was lamenting the distance between himself and a partner he'd just been with, whose voice he could hear any time he wanted -- while standing in front of someone whose partner had been ripped completely out of his life. "I'm sorry."

"There is no use in you saying that to me."

"But, I just -- you must blame me for what happened to Hawke. I was leading us." Fenris did not look any more moved, but having started down this path now, Lavellan couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut. "I want you to know that I feel every bit of that failure. I know that doesn't actually help you, but... I'm sorry. I really am."

More than anything else, Fenris was beginning to look exasperated. "And did you command Hawke to follow you? Did you order him to give his life?"

"No, but--"

"Varric insists on doing this also," Fenris said. "Wasting my time with these attempts to take responsibility for Hawke. It is pointless. You cannot take responsibility for that man. He never allowed that -- he always did things the way he wanted. The only person I blame for my suffering now is Hawke."

Lavellan wasn't sure what to say to that. He found himself stammering, "It -- it was a tough situation. We were stuck, there wasn't much he could have--"

"Hawke lied to me," Fenris said. "That was a choice he made. He could have told me where he was going. He could have allowed my help. Perhaps it would have been different if he had. We can never know that now."

"Oh," Lavellan said. "Yes, right, I remember..."

Fenris narrowed his eyes. "You remember what?"

"Uh, just, Hawke mentioned that to me. He said he was... afraid you would kill yourself to protect him, if he brought you along. I suppose he didn't want to risk your life as well as his."

Fenris stared at him levelly. "That was not Hawke's decision to make."

Lavellan just silently fidgeted with a sleeve.

Fenris went on, "There is nothing more agonizing than the torment of wondering what you might have done if you had been there. If Hawke hadn't lied to me, no force could have stopped me from being at his side. I will always love Hawke, but I will _never_ forgive him."

This seemed particularly pointed for Lavellan's life and circumstances. "I... think I see what you're saying there."

"I am not saying anything other than what I've just said. Whatever choice you make, that is up to you. But I do not see what you gain from worrying over reports of assassins from afar. Either this is worth fighting for or it is not. If you do not make a choice one way or the other, there is much you stand to regret here. I do not recommend that experience."

"But if it's Dorian's wish that I keep to a safe distance..."

"And why should his wish carry more weight than yours? Because he is a wealthy and powerful magister and you a simple elf?"

Lavellan scowled reflexively. "What? No. It has nothing to do with that."

"Whatever the reason is, it makes little sense to me. For whatever that information is worth to you."

"Well... all right. Understood. I'll, uh -- I'll think about what you said."

Fenris just shrugged. "As you wish."

* * *

Dorian was reading intently in his study when Lavellan's voice came resounding through the sending crystal: "Dorian?"

Dorian activated his, then said, "Yes?"

"Why don't you want me in Tevinter with you?"

"I... pardon me?"

"I need you to explain to me again why you don't want me in Tevinter. Honestly. Please."

Dorian shifted uncomfortably in his chair. So it was going to be one of these conversations. Lavellan had seemed in a good mood the last few times they'd spoken -- what had happened now? "It's not that I don't _want_ you here. You know that very well."

"Then what is it?"

"I've already told you this, Amatus. I want you to be safe, and it's not feasible for you to live here safely. That's all."

"Is that really it? Is there no other reason behind you not wanting me there? Please tell me the truth."

"I -- truly, I have no idea what you might be getting at. Where did this come from?"

"I just want to be sure there's nothing else. That you're not... tired of me. Or anything like that."

"Oh, you can't be serious. Why would you possibly think that? Have the good people of the south been whispering things about my intentions?"

"What? No... If I heard anyone trying to whisper things about you, I'd punch them in the face."

Dorian laughed. "Not with your hefty murdering arm, I hope."

"That depends how rude the whispering is."

"Well. My hero."

"You're welcome," Lavellan said. "So, then, you're... not working up the courage to part ways with me from a distance?"

"Is that actually what you think?"

"I'm just making sure!"

"If you've convinced yourself of that, now, then your worrying has reached impressive new heights," Dorian said. "Or is it that you're looking for a reason to part ways with me?"

"Me? Pfft. No chance. You can't get rid of me that easily. Didn't you learn anything from Corypheus?"

"'Try not to fuse red lyrium to your face' was the main lesson I got there," Dorian said. "It's awfully unattractive... And can you even imagine trying to shave?"

"I don't think Corypheus was growing much hair, come to think of it," Lavellan said. "Some 'god' he was. Couldn't even muster a mustache."

"You're one to talk there, elf."

"Well, why do you think I needed you on my team?"

"Ha, of course. Is it any wonder we won? Corypheus probably took one glimpse at my facial hair mastery and simply gave up."

"Exactly."

"...But you do make a good point. You are remarkably hard to get rid of, aren't you? Like a miraculous little cockroach."

" _Oh._ Wow. Flattering. You're such a charmer."

"I meant... a lovely, beautiful cockroach. A cockroach that I'm happy to sleep with."

"Great, thanks. 'Fuckable cockroach.' Shall I put that on my gravestone?"

"Only if you credit me in a footnote," Dorian said. "Though, given your track record, I sometimes wonder if you can even be killed. You'll never need a gravestone at this rate."

"Well, then. I'll just have the phrase embroidered on something. ...With an embroidered footnote beneath it. 'Dorian said this.'"

"Much obliged, darling..."

Lavellan let a heavy breath out, then said, "I want to come back and see you again. Is that all right?"

"What, did you think I would never let you return? One visit would have to do forever?"

"Soon, I mean. Now, pretty much. There are a few things I want to talk to you about in person."

"Should I be concerned about this? Because the sound of that makes me concerned."

"Don't be concerned. It's nothing like that. I told you, you're not going to be able to get rid of me that easily. I'm even more stubborn than you are."

"How dare you. I am absolutely the most stubborn person in this relationship and I refuse to admit otherwise."

"No, you aren't."

"And you're wrong," Dorian said. "So, then, did you want me to arrange passage with--"

"Actually, I was thinking I should arrange it myself this time, now that I know the way."

Dorian went stiff, hitching up his shoulders, attempting to keep his voice calm and reasonable regardless. "Darling, I... really don't think that's such a sensible idea."

"Oh?" Lavellan said mildly. "I think it's very sensible."

"Right. This is your attempt to illustrate your point about stubbornness, isn't it?"

"Now, what was that revelation you recently had about needing to trust me?"

"On the subject of assassins. That is your area, as you so rightly pointed out. Travelling through Tevinter, on the other hand..."

"Now who's worrying too much?"

"You may be shocked to learn this, Amatus, but I have a vested interest in not seeing you kidnapped or murdered by my countrymen."

"You just said yourself that I couldn't be killed."

"Augh," Dorian said. "If I concede that you're the most stubborn, will you stop this?"

"Nice try," Lavellan said. "It's not as though I'll be going alone, I'll hire some help along. Varric knows reliable people, or so he claims... it'll be fine."

"If you want to inspire confidence in me, 'Varric claims' is not the phrase to use."

"Come on. You know he has resources. Trust me on this... And, look, I have a reason for doing it this way. You know there are a lot of escaped slaves moving through Hasmal..."

" _Hasmal?_ You mean, that most common refuge of escapees crossing the border? The place where slavers know to pop their heads in when they're looking for their fleeing property? You want to cross over _there_? For the love of -- please, no, don't do that. That's madness."

"They're not going to be looking for someone crossing the other way, are they?"

"They are still _there._ Seeking their 'cargo.' Cargo which, by an inescapable matter of nature, you happen to resemble."

"That's the point, Dorian... Look, I told you I'm trying to help Fenris organize assistance for slaves escaping Tevinter. I want to see for myself how they're managing it now. If there's anywhere to establish help for them, it would be there, wouldn't it? Anyway, I'll hire humans to travel with me, right? I'll just... stand between them. It'll be fine."

Under his breath, Dorian muttered, "Festis bei umo canavarum."

"Nonsense, it won't be me that does you in. You'll die smug and contented in bed at age one hundred and three. Or else you'll just choke on a candied date."

"Don't you dare bring candied dates into this. They've done nothing to you."

"How about this, then: I solemnly promise, once I get safely into Minrathous, I'll bring you a whole thing of candied dates."

"Oh, good. Because I wasn't going to be disappointed enough when you turned up dead. Now I also get to be upset about my lack of dates."

"Dorian," Lavellan said, putting on a soothing voice. That 'maybe the anchor won't actually kill me' voice. Never one to be trusted. "I will check in with you on every single day of the journey. All right?"

"And if you should run into actual trouble?"

"Well, then, I'll just beg you to come save me, obviously."

Dorian sighed. Lavellan may have begun to cheer back up to his regular self, but it seemed that came with a return to his usual hobby of challenging obstacles with reckless abandon. Part of the bargain, he supposed. "I'll be counting down the days. Lucky for you that I'm so very brilliant at saving your neck."

"I know you are. Why do you think I keep you around?"

"I thought we established that it was the impeccable facial hair."

"Oh, right, well. That too."

* * *

"Here's to a good journey!" Varric said, lifting a glass of something or other from the cellar of the Keep. "Just be careful out there on the road, kid. And make sure Sparkler knows to appreciate your company, since he's robbing me of my live-in drinking partner for weeks on end."

"Oh, he appreciates it, all right..."

"Aaaand stop right there."

"Fine." Lavellan took a long swig of whatever Varric had poured in his glass -- it reminded him of one of those awful concoctions he had nicked from some depressed corner of Orlais. Which one was he thinking of, Abyssal Peach...? "Ugh. What is this?"

"Don't ask me. Half the damn labels are missing."

"Drink experiments. How fun." Lavellan studied his friend for a moment. "Will you be all right, all alone in this giant keep?"

"Well, other than crying myself to sleep every night as I think about your absence... sure. I'll be just fine. You're not exactly the only person in Kirkwall who'll drink with me, kid." Varric paused. "Just the most likely to put up with whatever this shit is."

"Oh. So you're getting this shit out of the way before the real company shows up. I see how it is."

"Hey, now. Your low standards are one of my favourite things about you."

"Great. What a legacy." Lavellan took another sip, cringing all the way down. "Ugh. So, in the spirit of drinking and introspecting... How's the guilt and blame thing going these days?"

"Oh, _you're_ asking me that, Mr. Inquisitor of the Rampant Conscience?"

"I prefer 'Mr. Ex-Inquisitor of the Rampant Hypocrisy,' if you'd be so kind," Lavellan said. "You want to answer my question?"

Varric shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Well, you know. Blame is a pretty easy thing to do. It feels productive, even though it's not. It's really just an aggressive way to avoid the actual problem. You can get pretty comfortable, doing the blame thing. It's sure as hell easier than doing the opposite."

"Which would be, what, acceptance?"

"Exactly," Varric said. "I'm just not ready for that yet. So I'm wallowing here instead. It's comfortable. I'll be here for a while. That's fine with me."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure." Varric beckoned for Lavellan's glass, then refilled it. 

"Fenris told me he doesn't blame you..."

"He's mentioned that. As if my heart still being in my chest wasn't a giveaway. Did he actually talk to you about it?"

"Sure, a bit."

"Working on those social skills, I see. Good for you, Broody." 

"Did he tell you anything else...?"

"You mean the fact that he blames Hawke?" Varric said. "Yep. Imagine! Someone actually holding Hawke to account. I think he always liked that about Fenris."

"It almost makes me feel worse," Lavellan said. "Like I soured the memory of their relationship, or something like that."

"That's pretty stupid, kid," Varric said. "I get it, though. Stupid and comfortable, right?"

"I suppose so."

"It's not soured, anyway. Don't worry about it. Fenris gets angry at things. That's 'comfort' for him."

"Well. What a healthy, rational group of individuals you've collected here."

Varric chuckled. "That's just Kirkwall. Lock 'em all up in one place, as the saying goes..."

* * *

If there was a face of desperation to be found in Thedas, it was definitely the Silent Plains. 

The area had supposedly been bare since the First Blight. Desolate, choked with dust and rocks and ash and not much else. Just whistling wind and the occasional emaciated predator scrounging hungrily in the moonlight. And yet this was the landscape that so many escaped slaves doggedly forged across, so desperate were they to escape whatever they had faced in Tevinter.

When a ragged and exhausted group of escapees spotted a well-equipped caravan of people moving _north_ across the plains, there was only one conclusion to draw about who this might be: slavers, coming to find people just like them. They would scurry and hide among the rocks, like panicked insects.

Lavellan was still working out how best to handle this situation. He would ask his hired humans to stay back, then try approaching the hidden escapees with his hood pulled away from his face, calling to them alternately in the trade tongue and in elven, telling them not to be afraid, asking if they needed help.

At the sound of the elven language, sometimes one or two would peer around the rocks for a closer look. Usually, once he'd gained eye contact, he could talk them the rest of the way out of hiding. Then he and his hired companions would give them food and water, and draw them a map of the rest of the journey to Hasmal. It was the best thing they could think to do.

More often, however, the escapees wouldn't trust him enough to reveal themselves, despite his best efforts to reassure them. Even though Lavellan could usually tell full well where they were hiding, he would leave them be. Instead, his group would leave a ration of water and food out on the rocks for them, then venture onward, hoping that when they were far enough out of sight the frightened escapees might actually dare to take it. At the very least, perhaps another group of escapees might happen upon it and take it for themselves.

Sometimes they would come across a lonely corpse in the dust, most likely dead of exhaustion or thirst. If the corpse was elven, Lavellan would recite "In Uthenara" over the body; if it was human, one of his hired hands might say some words about Andraste. And if the corpse was so far gone they couldn't tell anymore, they would simply do both, one after the other.

Many of the people they found fleeing across the plains looked close to death themselves. They moved in jagged, exhausted motions, and those who dared reveal themselves to Lavellan were desperate for the food and water he gave them.

And yet all of them were terrified enough of going back that the majority refused to face the chance of help. Just in case it was not what it seemed.

With the escapees who could be convinced to reveal themselves, Lavellan would ask questions: how long have you been out here? Where have you escaped from? Did you have any help? How did you make it this far?

The answers generally followed the same themes. Largely, they had made their escape alone, using luck and grit and not much else. 

Sometimes, there might have been a helping hand or two along the way. There were people in the cities who were sympathetic to the plight of these slaves -- often Soporati who were not so enthused with the status quo. They might give some bread, maybe shelter for a night, and pass along some directions south. But once the escapees reached the plains, there was no more help on offer. All they could do was forge ahead across the barren ash, hoping against hope that they might eventually see Hasmal on the other side.

Lavellan couldn't help but think of Fenris, wondering how desperate he had felt when he made this trek. And he thought often of Endriel, every time he came across another escapee who had similar scars slashing up their arms. 

"This is just not good enough," Lavellan told Dorian through the sending crystal one night. "These people need more help than the odd flask of water we can hand them... It's insanity, the idea of crossing these plains without proper supplies. There has to be a better way out of Tevinter than this."

"If anyone can find it, you can," Dorian said. He hesitated, then. "I... appreciate hearing about this from you. It's not something that's discussed much up here. It's something I need to keep in mind a little more."

"Do you think you can do anything from your end? Not directly, I know, but more broadly? Could you change things for the slaves who are still there?"

"Well, I'm trying to, of course. But how likely is it to actually happen?" Dorian sighed. "I don't know, Amatus. I'd say change in the Magisterium moves at a snail's pace, but that'd be insulting to the snails. It's like I'm trying to carve a detailed sculpture out of granite with a butter knife. Sometimes it feels like a complete waste of time. Especially when you think of all the people suffering as you dally around, playing the game."

"Don't say that," Lavellan said. "That's why they only have shits in politics, because it's all so frustrating to actual good people like you. They need people like you, though. I'm glad you're there."

Dorian chuckled. "At least someone is..."

"Someone has to approach change from the top, after all. With luck, you can make it easier for people to change things for themselves on the bottom."

"I do hope you're right, love. I just wish I could do both at once." Dorian shifted his tone, then, and Lavellan could hear the smirk in his voice: "Now, if it were you, I'm sure you'd have already found a way to turn the Magisterium on its ear. I need to borrow some of that quality, whatever it is."

Lavellan laughed. "No, I wouldn't have. First of all, I'm not a mage. They wouldn't even let me in the door."

"I can see you defying that. Wouldn't be the first aspect of reality you've bent to your whim."

"Not to mention that what you're doing requires actual planning. Me, I never had any clue what I was doing. Josephine organized things, I just stabbed people."

"Well, maybe that's it, then. Perhaps I should shred all these blighted plans and just start stabbing. What do you think?"

"It's an idea for the backburner, at least..."

* * *

The journey to Minrathous went much quicker once they'd reached the road on the north side of the Silent Plains. The city was still an unimaginably gigantic stone monument to Tevinter arrogance, but knowing that its walls contained Dorian, the sight of it on the horizon was almost comforting.

With the many desperate faces of the plains still sharp in his mind, Lavellan found it was a relief to look at Endriel. The young man was actually looking rather well this time, and he smiled brightly at Lavellan as he recognized him in Dorian's entranceway. "Andaran atish'an! So glad to see you safe. Lord Pavus will be relieved that you've finally arrived."

"Aneth ara... Don't tell me he's been fretting about me."

"Oh... not exactly. He's just been... on edge since you started your travels. I'm afraid he's not home at the moment, but if you'd like me to take your things upstairs..."

"That's all right, Endriel. Actually, do you have a moment? There's a letter from a friend of mine that I want you to see..."

> Dear Lethallin,
> 
> Always happy to help. I only wish there was more I could tell you. I do remember Clan Alerion: they attended the most recent Arlathvhen. Unfortunately, that clan no longer exists as such: its numbers had gotten so small that they felt they could no longer keep themselves safe and thriving. When we were all gathered, the Keepers dissolved Clan Alerion and divided up its last members among the other clans attending, according to their need.
> 
> Ir abelas that I can't tell you where exactly they went. None came to my clan, and it's been too many years for me to recall the rest. We can likely still find some of Clan Alerion's former members, but we would have to seek them out one at a time among the clans of Ferelden and the Dales. I will be sure to ask after them whenever I encounter other clans and let you know if any should cross my path.
> 
> Na falon,  
>  Loranil

Lavellan watched Endriel carefully for his reaction as he read this note. To his relief, the younger man was remaining rather calm about the whole thing. In fact, he was nodding. 

"So my people were sent to other clans. That's good," Endriel said. "I'm sure that was safest. They did take away an awful lot of us."

"Who did? Tevinter?"

"Oh, yes," Endriel said, handing the letter back. "They took us by surprise. It must have been half my clan on that ship."

"Fenedhis, I had no idea. Do you know what happened to the others?"

"One died on the voyage. The rest, I don't know. Sold off when we got here. Just one was sold to the same... person that I was." Endriel was gazing at his feet again. "I thought that would be a good thing, having a friend with me in this place. All it ended up meaning was I'm certain of how she died. The others, at least I can... hope. Especially now. I keep telling myself: maybe they ended up serving someone kind, like Lord Pavus. ...I don't really believe that. But I try to, anyway."

Lavellan just shook his head. What a thankless situation for an innocent kid, he thought. "If you ever want to talk about what you've been through... If you think that would help, I'm happy to listen."

Endriel was still avoiding eye contact, studying the maze of scars on one of his forearms. "Ma serannas. But I don't know if it would."

"That's fine, Lethallin. If you change your mind, I'm here." Lavellan leaned in. "Now -- I know this is not exactly the answer we hoped to find, but I do have two other ideas for you, if you'd like to hear them."

"Oh? Of course..."

"I know Loranil's clan very well. They travel around the Dirthavaren. If you wanted, I'm sure they'd be happy to have you join them. They could probably use a few extra hands." _How much spindleweed did I have to pick for them, after all..._

"Oh! That's... Ma serannas, that's very generous! I don't know what to say. I'm not sure if... I..."

"Just think about it. No need to decide right now. It's an open-ended offer," Lavellan said. "But so long as you're still here, I thought you might actually be able to help me with something else."

Endriel looked up quickly. "Anything!"

He was on board faster than Lavellan could blink. As much as he knew about the way slaves were moved in and out of Minrathous, he would tell Lavellan -- and any useful whispered information he chanced to hear, he promised that he would immediately share it, too.

That would be a helpful start. So, there was only one person left for Lavellan to talk to now. One incredibly stubborn person. 

The anticipation was tight in Lavellan's stomach as Dorian finally came into the study that evening, grinning wide and opening his arms. "Well, well! An intruder, I see!"

Dorian was going to resist. Lavellan knew this, but he would still try. At all costs, he needed to convince Dorian. He had to.

Dorian immediately pulled Lavellan into a relieved hug. There was still nothing in the world like the feeling of Dorian holding him tightly in his arms. Lavellan squeezed back, savouring every moment of this, then got up on his toes to get a good look at Dorian's face, studying every detail that had been much too far away from him over the last weeks. Trying to pick a favourite part and reconsidering constantly. Perhaps it would be Dorian's nose today...

"Are you all right?" Dorian asked.

 _I will be the most stubborn one here,_ Lavellan thought. _No matter what you might say to me._

While working to gather up his courage, Lavellan touched Dorian's nose with the tip of his, then rubbed it back and forth for a moment. It made Dorian chuckle, although he still seemed to be waiting for an answer to his question. 

_Damn it, I love this nose,_ Lavellan thought. After steeling himself with a deep breath, he said, "I'm all right, Dorian... Come sit down with me. We need to talk."

* * *

"Dear Ser," Varric said, his hands clasped behind his back. Seneschal Bran was sitting at the desk, dutifully transcribing this memo. "Many thanks for your letter, which I did not read."

Bran looked up with a frown. "I beg your pardon? You told me you did read it."

"Ah, who remembers what I've read and what I haven't? Either way, I'm not telling him I did. That'd give him way too much satisfaction."

Bran sighed. "How long must we devote our energies to this juvenile feud with Starkhaven?"

"Indefinitely," Varric said. "Pick up the quill, Bran. Now, where was I..."

With an utter absence of enthusiasm, Bran recited, "Dear Ser. Many thanks for your letter, which I did not read."

"Ah, right. Next paragraph: 'But I do have some good news from Kirkwall. I hear the 'lacquered pilot whale' look is coming back into fashion.'"

"The _what?_ "

"He'll get it. Just put it in there."

Suddenly there came an unexpected stir from the nobles hanging around outside Varric's office. Distinct humming and rhubarbing, heralding some incredibly minor intrigue, no doubt. "Well, I'd better see what this is!" Varric said, desperate to be doing anything else, and he bolted out the office doors, over the sound of Bran's strained protests.

There was Lavellan, of all people, walking unhooded through the midst of the nobles milling about the Keep -- they had evidently recognized him and were muttering their thoughts to each other. _Strange_ , Varric thought. Lavellan usually snuck in the back way to avoid this kind of spectacle.

Still, it was good to see him back from Tevinter in one piece after all these weeks. Varric strode up to him with a grin and said, "Hey, kid! Welcome back. How'd it go? How's Sparkler doing?"

Lavellan barely even looked down at him. He said, "I don't want to talk about it, Varric."

Varric froze. "I... What? What do you..."

"Varric. Do not ask me about Tevinter. Please."

Then Lavellan continued on through Varric's office, heading towards the guest quarters of the Keep.

"What the shit...?" Varric muttered under his breath. Around him, the nobles who had viewed this exchange were murmuring to each other again, suggestions of what this might possibly mean. 'One-armed Dalish ex-Inquisitor having a passionate affair with a Tevinter magister' was a popular enough subject of gossip around these parts, but with possible dramatic strife thrown into the mix? Irresistible. Varric could tell this one measly scrap of ambiguous detail would be the talk of the nobility for days. 

"Clear off, people, nothing to see here," Varric barked at those around him, and then he hurried after Lavellan.

"Do not tell me you are leaving," Bran said. "We're not even a quarter through our--"

"Shove it, Bran," Varric said, as he rushed through the door to the living quarters.

Bran sighed theatrically, sinking slowly back into his chair.

After a minute, Varric poked his head back through the door. "Sorry. What I meant there was: Bran, would you please handle the desk for a little while?"

"Yes, Ser," Bran said dully. "Of course, Ser."

"You're an excellent seneschal," Varric said, and he disappeared again.

* * *

Varric found Lavellan standing in his guest room, chin in his hand, studying the window.

"Okay, kid," Varric said. "Level with me. What's going on? Are you okay? What the hell happened up there?"

"It's... complicated."

"Well, of course it is. Does Sparkler even _do_ 'uncomplicated'?"

Lavellan didn't say anything to that. He continued to stare out the window, as if the wind blowing plumes of smoke and ash directly up from Darktown _hadn't_ completely obstructed the view on this day.

Varric came to stand beside Lavellan, putting a hand on his elbow. "Hey. Do you want to talk about this? Is there anything I can do to help here? Game of cards? Bottle of shit wine? You want me to put a hit out on someone? You name it, kid. I'm here."

Lavellan was quiet for a long time, chewing his lip. Then he said, "Can you keep your mouth shut, Varric?"

"Can I _what_ , now? Have you met me?"

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"Well, now, that depends. If you're literally asking if I can keep my mouth shut, you should know that's out of the question. But if you're asking if I know how to keep the truth from someone? Absolutely, kid. It's a talent of mine. I mean -- recall that I did keep Hawke away from Cassandra. And you do not want to know how many hours of questioning that took." 

"Fair point." Lavellan turned from the window, finally, and flopped back against the wall, crossing his arms, sliding down until he was eye level with Varric. He looked like he had been spending a lot of nights worrying instead of sleeping. In character for him, Varric supposed.

"Look," Lavellan said. "I really need to tell you something. But it's vitally important no one finds out about it."

 _And once again, it comes down to a secretive scheme_ , Varric thought. _Figures, I guess._ "Let me ask you one thing first. Are you planning to blow up any buildings?"

Lavellan stared blankly at him for a moment, then said, "Not today."

"All right, then, kid. I'm all ears."


	6. Shut up, Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we seek the real story...... and in which several things are shut.

When Dorian thought about it, Lavellan really did tell him to shut up an awful lot. It was sort of his thing.

Then again, it had always been clear to Dorian that there was a measure of affection in Lavellan's use of the phrase. Not hard to reach that conclusion, considering the moment he'd first heard it in.

It had been _weeks_ of shameless flirting before Dorian had finally trailed Lavellan to his quarters and suggested they dispense with the chit-chat and get on with things. He had originally intended to be on his best behaviour while in the south, as the Inquisition's sole representative of 'Good Tevinter.' But Lavellan was plainly infatuated with him, and Dorian was rather intrigued himself -- so after a long and steady crumbling of his willpower, Dorian eventually decided they may as well have some fun. It surely wouldn't _hurt_ to please the powerful Inquisitor, after all.

So he had prepared to show his best arsenal of tricks and waltzed casually after Lavellan to his quarters, lobbing the proposal his way. And, thankfully, Lavellan hadn't turned him down. Instead, he'd worn a relieved smile and said: "I thought you'd never ask."

They'd kissed unfettered for a minute, all according to plan -- but then, before Dorian could make any of the moves he'd had in mind, Lavellan had deftly gotten Dorian's trousers undone (how did he always do that so fast? did lockpicking skills apply here?) and was suddenly getting to his knees, a kiss or two dropped on Dorian's stomach on the way down.

"Oh," Dorian said. "I--"

His train of thought was briefly interrupted as Lavellan dragged a sucking kiss up his inner thigh. Dorian found himself making a distinctly unintentional sound, then attempted to regain his composure and said, "Well, this is a very nice gesture you're making here, and not to say I wouldn't enjoy it, but--"

Lavellan looked up at him, blinking, confused. "You don't want...?"

Dorian chuckled. "No, clearly you have my interest," he said, gesturing downward, "but I simply -- _Maker_." This last bit, a reaction to a tentative venture from Lavellan's hand. "I'm saying it's not necessary. I'm more than happy to be the one who--"

Lavellan looked up at him with an expression that could best be described as 'enthusiastic hunger' and said, "Shut up, Dorian."

And then he proceeded, and Dorian found himself temporarily incapable of coherent speech -- which was shutting up of a sort.

Such an embarrassment, Dorian thought in retrospect, that he had let Lavellan 'win' their first encounter so easily. (Well. No matter. Dorian had gotten him back doubly afterwards.)

Much later in their relationship, Dorian had asked Lavellan why he'd thought Dorian needed impressing that time, and not the other way around. Lavellan had been utterly perplexed by the question.

"I wasn't trying to impress you with that," he said, after Dorian explained the specific act he was referring to. "I was just doing what I needed to."

"But that's what I'm asking. Why did you think you needed to do that?"

Again, Lavellan looked confused. "Because I really needed to," he said, and then he laughed. "Desperately, even!"

Once again, a completely baffling kick to Dorian's expectations. Lavellan was rather good at doing that.

"Shut up, Dorian" had continued to be a staple phrase. It could come with laughter or a scowl during playful banter, or with worry and relief after a near-fatal encounter, or with genuine irritation during a squabble...

Or, as Dorian had learned during their last argument before Lavellan left Tevinter for the second time -- it could apparently come with free-flowing tears.

Lavellan sniffed, pushed some tears away from one eye with the heel of his palm, and said a shaky, "Shut up, Dorian."

That was definitely a new one. And now, in Lavellan's absence, it was the only one Dorian seemed to be able to think about.

* * *

Varric was always good for a spot of gossip, even -- especially -- when it concerned his friends.

Ever since the public had first caught wind of the fact that the Inquisitor was sleeping with the Inquisition's token Tevinter mage (the scandal!), people had been occasionally approaching Varric to seek out more of the story. And after those present in Viscount's Keep at Lavellan's return began spreading the rumour that there could be trouble in paradise, a rising number of people were once again coming to ask Varric prying questions about Lavellan's love life.

Quietly, they would sidle up to the respectable viscount at his table in the Hanged Man, maybe buy him a drink, then ask him, "What happened with the ex-Inquisitor and the Tevinter Magister?" 

Varric would bat away questions for a while. "No, no. He's a friend, I couldn't possibly." But then, once he'd been plied with enough drinks, he would take a sweeping look around, beckon the listener in, and start: 

"Imagine the love of your life lives in a country that sees your kind as nothing more than property. How could you keep that from getting between you?"

The listeners would edge their chairs in.

And Varric would continue, "Picture this scene. Lavellan is heading out to find some bread at the market when a slaver spots him. The slaver instantly realizes the value of this elf, so he decides to try to capture Lavellan and sell him for a fortune. Now, in Tevinter, this shit happens to Lavellan every day, so he's not too worried. That is, not until he reaches for his dagger -- he only carries one these days, what with the missing hand, you know -- so he reaches for his dagger and suddenly realizes that it's missing."

"Someone took his dagger?"

"Maybe! Or maybe it fell out of his coat. He's not sure what happened, but he doesn't have time to find out, because this slaver is coming at him fast, and the guy is _huge._ So Lavellan takes off at a run. But he doesn't know the streets very well yet, and the slaver gets him cornered at the dead end of an alley. Now, Lavellan tries to escape by climbing up some crates -- but there's nowhere to go once he's up there. He's trapped like a rat."

Varric takes a long swig of his drink, savouring the tenseness of the moment, before sitting forward again.

"So, the slaver stands at the bottom of the crates, looking up at Lavellan, laughing like he's just ruined a kid's birthday party, and he says, 'No one can help you now, elf!' And Lavellan says, 'Oh, no? I think I see _someone_ who can _give me a hand_..."

The audience watches, rapt, as Varric mimes this next part of his story: "Then, before the slaver can do anything, Lavellan reaches into his coat, unbuckles his prosthetic arm, and hurls it to the ground!"

"Gasp!"

"Now, I don't know if you've ever seen Lavellan's prosthetic, but that thing is a whole lot of solid metal. It probably weighs more than the entire rest of his body. So, on impact?" Varric slams a palm to the table. "It crushes the slaver's head like a melon." 

An appreciative hum from the audience. 

"When Lavellan's beloved Magister finally finds him, the elf is just sitting on a crate, casually cleaning blood and slaver guts off his detached limb. And Lavellan says, 'I can't live like this. I don't want to be dodging slavers at every corner for the rest of my life! If we're going to be together, it needs to be somewhere I can actually exist.' And the Magister says back..."

Varric doesn't typically put on voices when he tells his stories -- he finds they distract from his narrative -- but here, he can't resist adding a touch of Dorian flourish: "'But darling! The fact that you can't live safely here is precisely why I went into politics. How can I leave Tevinter in this shape? I want to change things for you.'"

"Awww..."

"Exactly. It was all very romantic, slaver guts aside," Varric says. "It was in that alley, however, that the two realized it: as long as they were both trying to live the lives they wanted, they could never be in the same place. So the Magister says, 'You will always inspire my work, but I can't ask you to stay here.' And Lavellan says, 'And I will always love you..... but I have to go.'"

"Oh, no," murmur the spectators. "That's so sad. What a tragedy..."

Varric would close off the story, then, with "Don't tell anyone I told you!" -- and a friendly wink.

* * *

Lavellan and Varric were hanging around the Gallows, watching the unloading of ships from the harbour, when Varric piped up, "So, the viscount of Kirkwall and the Herald of Andraste walk into a bar..."

"Uh... Yes, we have been known to do that on occasion. And? Is there a... punchline?"

"I don't know. Seems like there should be, doesn't it?"

"You're right, it does."

They both leaned pensively against the wall for a moment, staring off into the distance.

Lavellan ventured, "The viscount says... uh... 'get me a _tall_ gin and tonic'..."

"Aha. Because I'm short. Very predictable, Lavellan."

"Sorry. The only other thing I can possibly think of is... The viscount takes a drink and says, uh, 'Boy, this stuff really puts the hair on your chest.'"

Varric laughed. "That's so terrible, I almost love it."

"I am ashamed," Lavellan said. "What have you got?"

Varric stroked his chin. "The Herald says, 'Give me a whiskey. Five fingers neat.' The bartender says, 'Usually we do _two_ fingers.' And the Herald says, 'Well, I might need a few extra.'"

"Ugh. Varric."

"What? It's a work in progress."

As a flood of passengers disembarked from a ship, the two of them craned their necks for a minute, searching the crowd, then settled back against the wall.

"Hey," Lavellan said. "You'll speak to Cassandra for me, right? I don't know how to reach her just now, but -- she'll probably want to know..."

"Don't worry. If I know the Seeker, wherever she's got to, she'll be banging down my door in a month, tops. I'll explain things to her."

"Thanks, Varric."

"No problem. And, uh... what exactly do you want me to tell everyone else?"

"Just make something up," Lavellan said. "You're good at that, aren't you?"

" _Good_ at it? Kid, it's my specialty."

Lavellan chuckled. "Of course." He let silence settle in for another minute, then said, "Before I... Can I just say one thing?"

"Go for it."

"You really, really don't have to be viscount. Step down, if you're miserable. Don't suffer through it just because."

"But I haven't nearly run the office into the ground yet! May as well hang around until that happens."

"Oh. Is that the goal?"

"Not exactly. Just an inevitable consequence of taking the position."

Lavellan snorted. "Way to accept your fate... You could always dramatically disband the office. People love that. Particularly if you manage to incorporate a surprise amputation."

"I would never tread on your coattails like that. I'll find my own dramatic way to fuck things over, thank you."

Out of nowhere, some blonde, excited sprite burst out of the crowd -- Sera met them with a flying hug that nearly knocked Lavellan off his feet. "Hey, stupid arse! It's been friggin' forever!" She turned to Varric, then, and did a deep bow. "Ser Tiniest Viscount."

"That's debatable," Varric said. "Have you seen the guy from Ansburg?"

"Don't care," she said. "So, where's our drinks? We've got plans to make, right?"

"Back to the Keep!" Varric said. "Just wait 'til you see how big the cellar is..."

"I'm really glad you came," Lavellan told her as they began their trek back. "Thanks for making the trip."

"That's what friends do, right?" Sera said, slinging her arm around his shoulders, then bringing her voice down low: "You feeling all right? About all the... everything?"

"I'm trying. We'll see."

"Right, well. We'll make this one count, yeah? Promise, this is going to be fun..."

* * *

The complaints had been trickling into the viscount's office all month. After years of relative quiet at the Bone Pit, another dragon had taken up roost in the spot where Hawke -- accompanied by his infamous glowing elf partner, the current viscount, and the man responsible for blowing up the Kirkwall Chantry -- had once slain the area's former occupant. Once again, this new dragon was terrorizing the miners at their work.

Now Varric and Fenris had returned to the mine, along with Lavellan, Sera, and a small entourage of well-equipped volunteers (mostly off-duty city guards who were eager to see this thing up close).

As they readied their gear, Seneschal Bran stood at the side, frequently sighing with impatience. "I don't see why you have to take care of this personally. This is a job for mercenaries. Any organized gang of thugs would do."

"It's good for morale, Bran," Varric said. "The people of Kirkwall like to see that the people in charge are still looking out for them. Plus, what's more inspirational than a dragon-slaying?"

"Perhaps you can even mount the head somewhere, Bran," Lavellan said. "People go wild for that."

"Exactly," Varric said. "It could be a distraction to the nobles with nothing better to do than pester you at your desk. You might even get some peace and quiet for a change."

Lavellan wouldn't have guessed it was possible, but Bran suddenly sounded even more disappointed than before: "Does that mean you intend to mount it by my desk?"

"If you keep scowling like that, maybe," Varric said with a wink. "Besides, this isn't a simple task. It took the Champion of Kirkwall to clear the dragon out of here last time. And since we no longer have one of those... this unlikely coalition of heroes here will just have to do."

"That is a strange way to describe us," Fenris said.

"Would you prefer 'three elves and a viscount'?"

"Ugh," Lavellan said. "Sounds like a horrible singing troupe."

"So, singing bards that kill dragons? I'd throw 'em a coin or two," Sera said.

"Let it be known that I forbid all of you from singing," Fenris said.

"Agreed," Bran said. "And, Ser, I was simply attempting to suggest that all of this seems like an unnecessary risk for you to take."

Varric gasped theatrically. "Why, Seneschal Bran, you _do_ care about me! Be still my beating heart."

Bran narrowed his eyes. "I care about the amount of paperwork I will have to fill out if you are massacred while in office."

"Don't be ridiculous, you love paperwork. It's your favourite thing."

As they ambled along the path that would lead down to the beach, where the dragon had been sighted last, they passed a small crowd of nobles. Despite being cautioned against it, some of Kirkwall's gentlefolk had made the decision to come along and catch this spectacle, holding up dinky parasols against the sun and chattering excitedly amongst themselves.

Sera frowned at them as they passed. "They do know this thing can fly, yeah?"

Fenris said, "Perhaps they believe if the dragon gets near them, they can simply pay it to leave."

Sera stared at him for a moment, then let out an appreciate giggle.

"I'm sure those parasols are fire-resistant," Lavellan said. "It'll be fine."

At that moment, a red-haired woman in armour stepped into their path, arms folded, blisteringly stern expression on her face. "Viscount."

Sera's eyebrows popped up appreciatively.

"Guard-Captain!" Varric said. "I didn't know you were coming to this little shindig."

"This is hardly a shindig, Varric," Aveline said. "To that point -- why are all of these people here? It's not safe to have them standing so close while you fight off a dragon."

"Well, I know that, Aveline, but I didn't exactly tell them to come here."

"And yet, somehow, they all found out about this expedition. How did that happen, exactly?"

"Well, how did _you_ find out?"

"Some of my guards mentioned it to me."

"Well, then, it sounds like you need to have a little chat with your guards about discretion."

Aveline narrowed her eyes.

"We will do our best to draw it in the other direction, Aveline," Fenris said. "But we cannot be held responsible for what these people decide to do in their spare time."

"Thank you, Broody."

"Nor can I stop them, unfortunately," Aveline said. "Clever of you to do your stunt outside of city limits, where I can't order people to disperse."

"'Stunt'? You're saying I told the dragon where to roost?"

"In any case," Aveline said, "I'll be up here to make sure no one gets burned to a crisp or trampled in a panic. And you're welcome for that, by the way, Varric. I'd hate to see what would happen to your reputation if half of Kirkwall's gentry was eaten up on your watch."

"This bunch?" Varric said, jerking his thumb in the general direction of the de Launcets. "They'd probably give me a medal."

Aveline compressed her lips into a thin line, shook her head, and walked away again.

"If you'll excuse me," Bran said, "I will just be standing behind her."

"An excellent plan, Seneschal," Varric said, as Bran strode off after Aveline.

"Wow," Sera said. "I didn't know there was a Kirkwall Cassandra."

"They're everywhere, Buttercup. People with their shit together, all out to ruin my fun."

"Considering how many people have turned up to watch this, it's probably a good thing she's here," Lavellan said.

"Well, of course it is, kid. Why do you think I let her find out about it?"

Lavellan snorted. He was never quite sure if Varric was actually a logistical genius or just excellent at seizing credit for things after the fact. "I see."

They left their company of off-duty guards to watch the path, with instructions only to jump in as a last resort -- and Varric instructed a few of them to turn back and help Aveline mind the crowd. 

Three elves and a viscount padded out onto the beach, casing the area. As they got farther out into the sand, there was a shuddering roar from behind the rocky outcropping ahead of them.

"Up there," Fenris said, unsheathing his sword. "Let's hope this one tires more easily than the last creature we slayed here..."

"All I know is, the ex-Inquisitor and I have gone up against a few of these, and we're _pretty good_ at finishing them," Sera said. "Besides, it'll be fun!" She elbowed Fenris. "Right?"

Rather than confirm or deny, Fenris simply gave her a look like he could not believe this impertinent intrusion into his personal space.

Sera shrugged and turned to Lavellan instead, sending her other elbow between his ribs. "What d'you say, ex-Inky?"

"Whatever happens, this one can't possibly be worse than the Highland Ravager," Lavellan said. 

"Oh, shit, yes," Sera said. "Real bastard of a fight, that one..."

 _But, of course_ , Lavellan thought, _we had Dorian along for that one._

Lavellan felt a weird ache at that. He supposed he'd grown used to facing down threatening obstacles with Dorian at his side. Who knew if he could even handle a challenge like this without that man behind him, casting protective barriers, lighting up the battlefield with spirits and electricity? Nothing boosted Lavellan's confidence like having that kind of power at his back. And when he was truly struggling, that warm plunge of a fresh barrier being thrown around him from somewhere behind was like a squeeze of encouragement.

 _Focus, Lavellan_ , he told himself. He bit his cheek, hoping it would wake him up, and then glanced over at Fenris.

The man was studying the horizon carefully for the dragon, the tip of his greatsword dragging in the sand. This was the place where he, Varric, Hawke and Anders had stood together and slain a dragon. Two of those people had now gone from here in catastrophic circumstances. Lavellan couldn't imagine what painful reminiscence this scenario must bring up for Fenris. And yet, from the outside, he looked the picture of determined focus.

 _Be more like Fenris_ , Lavellan told himself. _Stoic. Determined. Unemotional._

And yet, for whatever reason -- perhaps the needling absence of a barrier around him -- Lavellan found himself fixated on the fact that this set of companions was quite plainly missing Dorian. 

For a minute he found himself back in one particular conversation in the Winter Palace, the night he had found out Dorian was leaving. In a fit of anger, he had aired all his unfiltered doubts and frustrations Dorian's way -- 'you don't respect me enough to tell me things straight, you didn't care about me enough to let me know you were going.' The way Dorian had looked at him then, guilty and sad, was seared into Lavellan's memory.

 _"Please, don't say that. Of course I care about you," Dorian said. "That's_ why _it's difficult to tell you this... I didn't know how I could possibly do it. I just didn't want to see you hurt."_

_"And letting me find out like that was, what, exactly? You didn't think that might be hurtful?"_

_"I most definitely did not intend for you to find out that way," Dorian said wearily. "I am sorry, for the hundredth time... I thought if I told them first, I might... I don't know. Work up to it, or something like that."_

_"Why is it so hard for you to just talk to me?"_

_"It isn't, usually, of course. But on_ this? _An impossible situation like this one? I don't know how to do this. I just want so badly for you to be happy... But there is no way to make you happy here. Because you will not be happy in Tevinter, my dear. There is no possible way you could have a life worth living there. I don't have any idea how I can tell you that without breaking your heart, and mine."_

_Lavellan was gazing at his feet now, trying not to dissolve into tears. "You seem to have told me just fine right then."_

_"And now you're making that face," Dorian said. "And that's breaking my heart. Do you see what I mean?"_

Back in reality on the Wounded Coast, Sera elbowed Lavellan between the ribs again. "You all right?" 

"Oh -- yeah," Lavellan said, shaking himself back to awareness. "Just... I'm glad you're here for this."

Sera grinned at him. "Me too," she said, and then she whipped her head around excitedly as two wings spread themselves over the outcropping above them. "Heads up, there she is!"

Lavellan pulled a dagger with his right hand, taking a deep breath. One-handed stabbing was also a bit of an adjustment in this scenario -- but for today, he would just have to rely on stealth and speed. He was still good at those things. And he'd been practising his balance with the new arm...

The dragon was not quite fully grown, but still intimidating enough as she reared her head over the intruders on her beach. She breathed a plume of fire as if in warning, then beat a swell of wind out with her wings and began to swoop down on them.

"I'll draw her towards me!" Fenris called to the others. Then, to Lavellan, "You follow behind!"

His lyrium markings exploded with blue light, then, a pulse of energy beating out from him, and Fenris raced forward, the dragon following him like a beacon.

"Weird," Lavellan heard Sera yell, as she and Varric slowly backed away, covering Fenris with arrows and bolts. "Really weird!"

"You get used to it!" Varric yelled back.

Lavellan skirted around the dragon, staying out of her notice as he usually did, waiting until he could find the right place to quickly strike. If he could damage one of her wings, he thought, the people up the path should be safe enough from her -- at the very least, if she came for them, they'd have time to get away. Once their safety was assured, then he could focus on the other thing he had come here to accomplish.

He steeled himself with a breath, waiting until she crouched low in a growl -- Fenris came at her, then, and as he distracted her with a painful slice to the leg, Lavellan leapt for her back, taking advantage of her few seconds of howling confusion to leap up, sink his dagger through the membrane of her left wing and rip it downward.

Though he had quickly crippled her wing, Lavellan began to regret not having a second hand to hang on with -- the dragon was attempting to buck him off, throwing him left and right. And then she twisted around her long neck, and suddenly he was looking the dragon right in the face.

Intelligent eyes. Beautiful scales. Lavellan was suddenly flooded with recollections of the many teachings about non-wasteful hunting practices that had made up his teenage years, and he felt a thrill of guilt run down his spine. "Vir ena, Andruil," he muttered in reflex.

And then came a hundred lashing teeth in a saliva-strung maw.

At the very last second, Lavellan threw his left arm up -- the dragon's teeth smashed closed on it, tearing across the metal, throwing sparks in his face.

From somewhere in the field, Varric howled: "That is quality engineering, you piece of shit!"

The dragon reared back and let out an angry screech, having no doubt cracked some of her teeth. Lavellan took the opportunity to leap off her back, landing on his feet in the sand, then backing away quickly. The dragon's wing looked badly mangled -- and she was furiously distracted from Fenris now. She came intently after Lavellan instead, just one wing beating, tail swishing fast in anger.

 _Good_ , Lavellan thought. _This will do nicely._

* * *

Up on the hill, the nobles gasped their appreciation as the Herald of Andraste somehow leapt away from the dragon's mashing jaws. (It was hard to tell how from this distance. Some of them held up tiny binoculars, and they squabbled with their companions over whose turn it was to gaze through them for a better look at the action.)

Bran shook his head and muttered, "Reckless."

"They knew what they were getting into," Aveline said. "As long as none of these innocent people are involved, I'll consider us lucky."

They watched Lavellan back progressively away, luring the dragon along the shore, towards a rocky cliff face, while Sera seemed to be edging closer to the both of them. At last, Sera reached Lavellan's side, tapped the back of his shoulder, and then pulled out a flask.

The next few moments were rather confusing. There was a crackling burst of something resembling lightning, flashes of electricity, and then something like an explosion from a mine -- followed by a rising, billowing plume of sand enveloping the two elves and the dragon. And then Sera came rocketing out of the cloud of smoke and sand in some kind of fantastic backwards leap, and the form of the dragon could barely be seen, bucking and howling against the onslaught of smoke and arrows.

It took a minute for the dust to settle, for clarity to return to the battlefield. And when it had, someone in the audience eventually asked it: "Where's the Herald?"

Aveline leaned forward, squinting, running her eyes back and forth.

Nothing. Whatever had just happened on the battlefield, Lavellan no longer seemed to be there.

"Shoot," Aveline said, drawing her sword. "We may have to--"

But before she could finish the order, Fenris had taken a running leap at the dragon, phasing himself through its chest and bursting out in a gory spectacle, killing the dragon instantly, raising gasps and cheers from the spectating nobles, and causing at least one delicate viewer to faint.

When Aveline reached the beach, the mood was not particularly celebratory. Varric and Sera were anxiously calling Lavellan's first name up and down the beach while Fenris stood there, gore-spattered, studying the deceased dragon as it bled out onto the sand.

Aveline took stock of this scene, then settled on Fenris as the calmest spectator for questioning. "What happened?" she asked him. "When did you see him last?"

"I am not certain," Fenris said.

She joined him in examining the dragon's body, now. "Could he be... underneath...?"

Fenris looked at her glumly. "I hope not."

They circled around it, poking with their feet, contemplating how they might lift such a thing. And then Fenris came to a stop on one side. "Wait. Here."

"What's that?" Aveline asked, and she came to his side.

There, sunk in between the dragon's ribs, was the hilt of Lavellan's dagger, last seen in his hand.

* * *

Despite numerous witnesses, there were conflicting accounts on what exactly had happened at the Bone Pit.

"So, wait. Did the dragon actually eat him?" someone might ask around the Hanged Man, which would set off a clamour of alternate explanations from the assembled patrons at the bar.

"I think maybe it just crushed him. Stepped on his head or something. And then his body got buried in all that sand..."

"I thought he just got blown up by one of the viscount's mines. It's no wonder the office is trying to cover that up, the corrupt bastards..."

"No, I thought, in all the confusion of that big dust cloud, he stumbled back into the ocean and got carried off by a rogue wave."

"Oh, that makes sense. Elves can't swim, can they?"

"Wait. Can't they?"

"Isn't it obvious, though? He was the Herald of _Andraste_. So, Andraste herself must have come down and lifted him straight out of this mortal plane."

"No, obviously he used the confusion of the dust cloud to escape down the coast. I hear he's going to change his name and open up a tavern..."

"I hear he actually fell through a tiny rift and disappeared into the Fade for good."

"All of you, seriously. Obviously the dragon just ate him. The simplest explanation is usually the right one, isn't it?"

"How could it just eat him, though? Just like that?"

"It was definitely one of the viscount's mines, then, that makes much more sense. That's why no body. It just blew him to smithereens."

"Well, I heard it was actually suicide. You know how heartbroken he was over that Tevinter Magister, right? He obviously _wanted_ the dragon to eat him."

"I heard that Tevinter Magister actually put a revenge curse on him. Has to be. I mean, blood magic! It's always blood magic."

If you found Varric in the back of the bar and asked him what happened in a hushed tone, he would look sombre, shake his head. "No shit, I was right there," he would say, "and I still can't be sure." 

If you pressed him for details, he might start by reciting to you that popular, tragic story of how Lavellan and the Magister had decided to part company shortly before the accident occurred.

"The kid was heartbroken over it," Varric would say. "Now, this sure wasn't any blood magic, I'll tell you that much. This was straight-up, raw, natural heartbreak at work."

"Was it suicide, then? Was he depressed?"

"Well, I don't know if I believe it was intentional suicide, but he sure was awfully down that day. Maybe that meant he was distracted. Maybe he just wasn't as careful during the fight as he could have been. Maybe he just wasn't ready to be fighting dragons one-handed." Varric sighed. "He slayed much bigger dragons than that one while he was Inquisitor. We honestly thought the whole thing might cheer him up a bit. But... well... fuck me, I guess..."

"What about all the other rumours, though? About Andraste? Or some kind of ripple in the Fade?"

"Well, sure, there could have been Fade magic involved. Divine intervention, even -- who really knows? Weird shit like that always followed Lavellan around. I even saw some of it happen, back during the Inquisition. But I'll be damned if I could ever explain any of it."

(The news of the disappearing Herald eventually made its way to Minrathous, where on rare occasions someone might even bring it questioningly to Dorian. "Weren't you and he, once...?"

"I would prefer not to speak of it," Dorian would say, with a tight expression. "We had parted ways, but... I still cared for him a great deal."

"So you don't have any idea what happened?"

Dorian would sigh regretfully. "No one really does. But if I know Lavellan... he never shied away from risk. He was constantly cheating death, he had the most unimaginable luck. I suppose it was only a matter of time before it..." Then a sharp inhalation of breath, and Dorian would wave them away. "No, I'm sorry. I can't...")

"Bad luck, eh, Varric?" someone said to him once, while raising their glass to him over the bar. "You seem to know a lot of people who strangely disappear."

"Well, I'm afraid that's just the type of world we live in," Varric said. "Real heroes can't just survive happily to the end. What kind of a story would that be?"

* * *

Dorian was staring at the sending crystal on his desk. No matter how long he looked at it, things didn't change: Lavellan's crystal was silent on the other end.

Dorian was still fixated on that conversation during Lavellan's last visit, when Lavellan had finally delivered the ultimatum Dorian suspected he'd been working towards since all the way back in the Winter Palace.

"We can't do this anymore, Dorian," Lavellan said. 

And then, just when Dorian had felt his entire stomach twist up with impending heartbreak, Lavellan had gone on: "No more distance. I want to stay here."

First, relief. Endless relief. But then, resignation -- this was surely impossible.

"It isn't safe for you here," Dorian began, for the thousandth time.

"But it's not safe for you, either!" Lavellan said. "With everything you're trying to accomplish here, the danger to you might be even greater than it would be to me. How am I going to stay south knowing you're facing constant threats of death? Would you _ever_ in your life accept the reverse?"

"I--"

"Seriously," Lavellan said, squeezing Dorian's hand, looking him in the eye. "Would you accept that?"

As Dorian gazed back at his little one-armed miracle person, the answer was clear and immediate in his head: _No. I certainly would not._

Yet this wasn't quite a fair comparison. Dorian said, "But it would be different for you. You can never have a proper life in Tevinter, you'd have to hide -- you'd never be free to live a life as yourself. I won't ask that of you, it wouldn't be fair." 

"And what freedom do you think I have anywhere else?" Lavellan asked. "Everywhere I go down south, people think I'm either some prophet of their god or a dangerous heretic. Is that freedom, living among them? Do you think I'm free to be myself in that situation? And what about my clan -- the one I never actually fit in with in the first place? With all that's happened, do you think they're eager to have me back? Some mess tangled up with human affairs, to put an even bigger target on their backs? Is that a better life for me, do you think?" 

"I... didn't think about it that way," Dorian said. "But you must realize--" 

" _This_ is where I want to be, Dorian. Here, with you. If having me with you is something _you_ don't want, then tell me that honestly, I beg you. But don't you dare try to send me away for my own good. The only one who gets to decide what 'my own good' means is me." 

"Well -- I mean, don't be ridiculous. Of course I'd be happier if you were with me. But I'm trying not to be selfish here -- if you can even fathom the idea of that..."

"This is how you're trying to be unselfish? By completely ignoring what I want?"

Dorian gave him a pained look. "You know what I mean, Amatus. I don't want you to suffer on my behalf. If you were going to live here with me, you'd essentially be a fugitive. You deserve better than that. You deserve a life centered on your own interests, not just mine."

"You are my interests. And I suffer far more away from you, trust me." 

"As deeply flattering as that is, love, I really don't know if you've fully considered this. You'd have a thousand targets on your back the second you even showed your face. You'd be accused of meddling in Tevinter politics just by existing in proximity to me..."

"I know my presence being known here would put your work at risk," Lavellan said. "I understand how that could hurt you. I won't do that to you, I promise."

"So, that means you'd have to exist in hiding perpetually. What sort of life is that?"

"And, again, what sort of life do you think this is, being the washed-up Herald of fucking Andraste?"

"'Washed up,' is it? Don't be ridiculous. I mean... here I thought you Dalish never bathed..."

Lavellan gave him an unamused look, but otherwise let this one slide. "Dorian. Listen to me. I can't stand being the person I am right now for another second. Do you understand? I would rather be nothing. I want nothing more than to just wipe myself right out of existence."

"I -- _what?_ What do you -- I know it's been difficult for you, but surely--"

"Here, I mean. I want to disappear right here."

Somehow that didn't add much clarity. Dorian said, "Does this have something to do with when you said you wanted to die here? Because I--"

" _What?_ " Lavellan said. "What are you talking about?"

Dorian hesitated, then said, "So... No? I... Why don't you explain first?"

Lavellan had the urge to slap a hand on either side of Dorian's face and squeeze. Of course, given the present state of his limbs, this was not an option. Instead, he took firm hold of Dorian's chin in his right hand.

"I am not talking about ceasing to exist," Lavellan said. "Here I am. I'm not going anywhere. That's the entire point. I am talking about ceasing to exist _as myself._ "

"So... a... new identity, then?" Dorian asked. "...Here?"

"Sure," Lavellan said. "Or no identity at all. What does it matter?"

"Well... well, but how does that work, exactly? I mean, I can't just shut you up in my wardrobe for the rest of our lives. If you are living here, you will eventually be seen by someone. How would we explain your presence?" 

"Is it so hard? Magisters have elven servants. What's suspicious about that?" 

Dorian was speechless for a moment, and then he laughed aloud. "Oh, I _see!_ So you would be my _servant_ , would you?" 

"Only in public, you ass." 

"Well, well. See if I hire you with that attitude." 

Lavellan chuckled. "Shut it. I assure you, Ser, my skills are invaluable." 

"Oh, I am intimately aware of your skills, trust me!" Dorian said. He lifted Lavellan's chin, then, and they studied each other for a moment. "As intriguing as this all is, are you so certain this plan would even work? You're not exactly an unknown figure in the world."

"On sight alone? Maybe I might be recognized in the south, but here? No one looks at me twice in the street. Hell, no one looks at me _once_ in the street. Because you know what I've got going for me?"

"What's that?"

"First, I'm an elf. Second, I'm not a mage. Exactly what interest is that to anyone around here?"

Dorian paused delicately. "I mean... of course, it's plenty to me, but I do see your point..."

"Right. So, how much interest do you think the general public here will have in an elven servant who can't use magic? I can try to keep my face hidden, sure, and keep my extra arm on, of course -- but I don't think it'll be near as suspicious as you're imagining. Who would be trying to 'unmask' me?"

"But if you just disappear from the Free Marches, wouldn't anyone with half a brain assume that you've just come here to be with me? I mean, what's more important to you than my company, after all...."

"Sure, I suppose," Lavellan said. "Unless I plausibly disappear in the course of something completely unrelated."

There was a bit of a pause. "Ah," Dorian said. "So it's going to be _that_ way."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"No, by all means. It's been quite a while since we attempted a dirty scheme."

"We...?" Lavellan said, drawing his brows up. "So you're willing to...? Are you actually all right with this? Please, I need you to tell me right now if you're not. Because if you really don't want me here..."

As Dorian studied Lavellan's pleading, desperate expression, it suddenly occurred to him how much time he had lately spent on trying to convince the man he loved _not_ to be with him. _Honestly, Dorian,_ he told himself, _you really do always take the most difficult path, don't you? Well. I suppose that is your 'thing.'_

"Honestly," Dorian said, "I think it might be best not to argue with you on this one. You're rather frightening when your mind gets set on something."

To his own great embarrassment, Lavellan started to cry instantly. Dorian frowned, perplexed. 

"Oh," Lavellan managed to say, as he wiped the tears from his eyes. "So, at last, you're intimidated by me. I've been trying so hard all these years."

"What nonsense! You know full well I've been intimidated by you ever since I first saw you gracefully fly across a room and stab someone in the heart. Like a majestic, murderous little halla on the plains..."

Lavellan snorted -- sort of. It sounded something like his usual snort of derision, but it was mixed with a bit of a sob, so it was hard to really say. He breathed through a few more hitching sobs, then wiped the tears from one eye with the heel of his palm and said, in a wavering voice, "Shut up, Dorian."

"Still trying that one, are you? Such commitment." Dorian pulled Lavellan into a hug, rubbing his back, hoping that might tame these confusing sobs. "Are you all right? Why in the world are you crying?"

"Because I'm _relieved_ , you idiot."

This relieved? Simply over being able to imperil himself for Dorian's sake? Despite everything they'd just spoken through, Dorian found himself doubting, yet again, as usual. As many times as he had already explained the stakes of this decision to Lavellan, surely the elf hadn't really understood if his reaction was all this. 

"It's not going to be easy here," Dorian said.

"I know. And I don't care," Lavellan said. "I want to face this with you. I want nothing more."

"But is all this really enough for you?" Dorian asked him. "Am _I_ really enough...?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Dorian cringed at how transparent they were. He would have laughed at himself, if he were in Lavellan's shoes. But Lavellan just squeezed him closer and said, sounding firm in spite of his tears: "You are more than enough. You are _always_ enough."

Right, well. That confirmed it. The elf was clearly insane. 

(Though, at least his insanity benefited Dorian in this case...)

Still, Dorian persisted -- though he attempted a slow backward scramble out of vulnerable territory as he did so: "But will you really be happy here? You won't find it a horrible bore? I don't want you to wind up feeling like you're trapped in a place where there's nothing for you."

Although Lavellan was still crying, with his cheek pressed against Dorian's chest, he seemed to have found some stability for his voice. "There is something here for me."

"Besides me, I mean. As irreplaceably wonderful as I may be, I do have to leave the house on occasion..."

"Oh. Yes, clearly you're the most important thing... That's not what I meant, though. I'll have some other things to do. This network for Fenris isn't going to organize itself."

"Oh," Dorian said. "Oh! I see..."

"Assuming you're all right with that, of course?" Lavellan said, looking up at him again. "I know it could cause you trouble if anyone ever found out that some elf from your household was out there, uh... stealing slaves, or whatever they'd call it..."

"Nonsense, how would they find out? You're discreet. And even if one day it does come out, why would that implicate me? I don't know a single thing about it."

"You don't? Not a single thing?"

Dorian stared at him blankly. "About what?"

"Oh, I see. Very good."

"Thank you." Dorian affectionately began to rearrange some of Lavellan's curls. "You don't have to be _too_ worried about staining my reputation, though, Amatus. I do more than enough to stain it on my own. It's not like my opponents are grasping for ammunition at this point!" 

"I can't imagine why. You're so respectable."

"Not another word... At any rate, of all risks, this sounds like an incredibly worthy one to take on. And if I can't tackle things up top and down below at the same time, myself... well. A delegation of the latter sounds like an excellent compromise. Wouldn't you agree?"

Lavellan grinned up at him, rubbing some more tears away with his palm. "I was very much hoping you'd see it that way."

"Well, then, let me say that I officially disavow any knowledge of this conversation," Dorian said. "And any and all knowledge about the future location of ex-Inquisitor Lavellan."

"Strange how he disappeared like that, isn't it?"

"Yes, very sad. I was quite fond of his ass... Well, no matter. I seem to have gained an incredibly comely servant in the meantime."

"Pfft. Don't push your luck, there, 'Ser.' "

* * *

Back at his desk in Minrathous, Dorian lifted his head quickly at the sound of a creaking floorboard in the hallway. He studied the doorway, seeing no one for a straight minute, then dropped his head again, staring at the crystal.

Seven days. How much more torturous could this possibly get? How long could Dorian possibly be expected to endure this?

And then suddenly one arm wrapped around him from behind, and Dorian nearly jumped out of his chair, making a startled sound. In his ear, wrapped in a warm breath: "I win."

"You rotten bastard," Dorian gasped, a hand to his chest, as his heartbeat came back down to normal.

Lavellan pressed a kiss to Dorian's temple. "Sorry, love."

"And it took you long enough," Dorian said, pushing out his chair, tugging Lavellan's arm until the elf came around and plopped down in his lap, so Dorian could wind his arms around Lavellan's waist. "Do you want to worry me to death?"

"I'm just trying to keep you on your toes."

"Well, if you keep it up, I'll probably wrinkle. And _then_ where will we be?"

"You'll look very distinguished, I'm sure," Lavellan said, patting his cheek. "Anyway, I had to come back from the dead, all right? That takes some time."

"Rubbish. For you, that's just a regular Tuesday." As Dorian looked up at the man in his lap, despite his tone, an irrepressible smile was venturing out across his face. "Did you have any trouble in the city?"

"Not at all," Lavellan said. "The sewers are _incredible_ in this place! There's so much potential down there..." 

"Ugh. Trust you to find potential in a dank sewer. It's practically your trademark." 

"Honestly, think of it, Dorian. I just got across the city without seeing a soul... It's complicated, but I could map it, easy, in a few weeks. Think of how easily I could move people through there..."

Dorian sighed. "Oh, very well. The love of my life smells like a sewer. That's just a fact now, I suppose."

"You wanted me to be happy here, didn't you?"

"I should have known there was a catch. 'You can take the elf out of nature'..."

"'But you can't force him to stop hanging around in dark, foul-smelling holes.'"

"Evidently," Dorian said. "At any rate, it seems you've seamlessly combined all your interests in one fell swoop. Helping people. Dark holes in the ground. Sleeping with me... Well played."

"And to think you didn't want me to come here."

"I _always_ wanted you to come here, Amatus. I just want you to be safe as well."

"In case you've forgotten," Lavellan said, "me keeping to safety is not really in the cards."

"So I'm coming to realize. Hence... here you are." Dorian tapped Lavellan's nose, as if verifying it. "At least so long as you're here I can keep an eye on you."

"Ha. Not on your life. We both know I'm here to keep an eye on you."

"That's what you think."

"Shut it," Lavellan said. "You are not winning this one, Dorian."

Dorian chuckled, then pulled Lavellan in closer, resting his chin among Lavellan's curls. "Well, then. I think we'll just have to see about that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for following along with this! :) Seriously, you're pretty cool.
> 
> This wraps up my attempt to resolve my Trespasser heartbreak... but I plan to continue some of the other plot threads surrounding these two in a separate work. To be posted here eventually, I'm sure, once I get my shit together!
> 
> (ALSO: I gladly welcome better punchlines to Varric's joke)


End file.
